


A Change in the Wind

by addielouwho



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cousin Incest, F/M, M/M, Multi, Sibling Incest, Smut, What if Scenario, everything that's in game of thrones is in this so take that as you will
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 22:09:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 26
Words: 60,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3826813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addielouwho/pseuds/addielouwho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A WHAT-IF Scenario: What if Elia Martell died whilst giving birth to Aegon and the Tourney at Harrenhal took place afterwards? What would change and what wouldn't?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> I recommend skimming over [this](http://lookingaroundforlife.tumblr.com/post/117451446641) to get an idea of the timeline changes and such :)

 

**PROLOGUE**

 

For the first time in his eight and ten years of life, Jorran Waters felt cold. Not just any kind of cold, like the kind that can be remedied with furs or with a burning hearth; this was the kind of cold that settles deep into one’s bones. Trying to keep himself from freezing, Jorran curled his bare arms beneath his armpits and let out a shuddery breath. His actions did little to prevent the cold from seeping even further within himself and so he picked up his pace throughout the halls of the Red Keep.

 

Jorran had been a servant in the Red Keep for eight long years. He was born the bastard son of a whore named Rhysa in Flea Bottom. His mother was young with hair the color of brass and cinnamon skin, with chocolate eyes that were usually filled with warmth for her son, even when drunk. She was very popular in the brothel in which they lived but since having Jorran she had become less desirable and some of their funds dwindled. Jorran supposes he was lucky enough to have been kept with his mother instead of the orphanage but still, a brothel is no place for a child. He grew up beside whores and soon knew how to make a quick coin whilst his mother was doing her “business”. However, most of the extra coin went to his mother’s summerwine collection and so he had to beg the other whores for extra pieces of bread. Most of them were willing to part with a piece or two but some were stingy; Jorran learned quickly which ones were willing or not. Despite this, Jorran loved his mother very much and she did him.

 

Until he was ten, this was the only life Jorran knew. He knew next to nothing outside the walls of the brothel. His mother rarely allowed him out on the streets of Flea Bottom, citing various dangers around every corner and hiding every crevice. One day, however, danger seemed to have found him. Jorran remembers the last day he ever saw his mother as if it happened yesterday, not eight years ago.

 

The day began normal, Jorran woke with the sun as he always did and pulled together a measly breakfast of bread and watered-down ale for himself and his mother. After he shook her awake, they ate in silence with the only sounds they heard were the overnight customers downstairs. Jorran had learned to tune it out and instead just focused on chewing his bread. He had noticed his mother was eating much slower than she usually did and was staring at him with glassy eyes. It scared him.

 

“What Mamma?” Jorran asked.

 

His mother smiled — the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes but at the time Jorran hadn’t noticed — and said, “Nothing my sweet boy. Just, I’m admiring how grown you’ve become. Soon you won’t need me at all.”

 

Jorran grinned, thinking she was jesting and replied, “Never Mamma. I’ll always need you.”

 

His mother paled but kept her smile and dismissively said, “Yes, dear. Now finish your breakfast, Mamma needs her boy to be big and strong for today.”

 

Jorran remembers how much that statement filled him with joy — _his mother wanted him to be big and strong!_ — and he had quickly scarfed down the remnants of his breakfast, eager to please his mother.

 

The rest of the first half of the day went without incident, at least to little ten year old Jorran. Looking back, he figures he should’ve noticed the pitying looks he received from the other whores, even the ones who never shared their bread. At the time, however, Jorran was just concerned with pleasing his mother. Around midday, Jorran had been able to collect a few extra coins from his mother’s customers and was heading to her when he ran into someone.

 

This someone was a man of slightly short stature with smartly cut brown hair and a pointy beard. He gazed down at Jorran with a dangerous glint in his eyes but his mouth was quirked up in a smirk, as if not angry. Jorran didn’t know whether or not to be afraid. Before Jorran could stammer out an “M’sorry milord” his mother walked in behind the man, her eyes filled with unshed tears. 

 

The man turned, as if surprised she was there, and said, “Ah! Rhysa, there you are. I was wondering where you’d have scampered off to.”

 

Rhysa wrung her hands and looked to the ground before stammering out, “M-my apologies m-milord Bael-lish. I-I was ju-ust looking f-for my son, Jor-oran.” She reached out and Jorran ran to her arms, immediately feeling safer there.

 

Lord Baelish smiled mockingly, “Of course. And here you’ve found him! Now, I believe it is time we conduct our business. Shall we?”

 

Rhysa paled considerably before forcing a smile, “Yes milord. May I just take Jorran up to our —“

 

Lord Baelish held up a hand, stopping his mother, “There’s no need for that, Rhysa. You know as well as I that he is part of our business.”

 

At his words, Jorran looked up at his mother but she didn’t turn away from the man. Instead she tightened her grip on Jorran’s shoulder before replying, “Yes, milord. The main room is vacant for the moment, mayhaps there?”

 

Lord Baelish smiled, pleased at her acquiescence, “Yes. That shall do nicely. If you please, lead the way. I know not my way around here.”

 

Rhysa gave him a slight acknowledging nod before lightly pushing Jorran ahead of her as they walked to main room. Inside, the walls were decorated in lavish colors of red, purple, and gold with large couches and sitting pillows throughout the room. There were also oak tables cluttered with candles, pitchers of summerwine and bowls of grapes and other fruits. Hungry, Jorran grabbed a bundle of grapes before plopping down on velvet purple couch. He tried to hid his shaking hands as he ate the grapes. After he, his mother, and Lord Baelish were sitting — Lord Baelish sat across from Jorran and his mother, staring mischievously — did the truth come out.

 

“Now Rhysa, you obviously know why I’m here,” began Baelish.

 

Rhysa gave a short jerk of her head whilst her hands found Jorran’s, almost crushing his in her tight, clammy grip. Jorran did not say a word.

 

“In the matter that you cooperate, you will be given the full sum as was previously discussed. You need not worry, he will be taken very good care of. He will be in the presence of nobility. You want that for your boy, do you not?” asked Baelish as he motioned behind him. A gold cloak came into view, caring a large pouch that jingled with coins. Jorran’s throat tightened.

 

His mother, looking to Jorran for the first time since entering the room, said to him, “Jorran, my sweet. I need you to go with Lord Baelish. He is going to care for you now since I cannot. Please go with him without any fuss, my boy.”

 

Jorran opened his mouth in protest but saw the look in his mother’s eyes and stopped himself. Instead he nodded his head reluctantly and said, “Yes Mamma.” Jorran thought of something, “Will I see you again soon?”

 

His mother gave a sad smile, “I hope so, sweetling. If not, always remember your Mamma loves you and did this so you could have a life outside these brothel walls.” She took him into her arms and gave him the hardest yet warmest hug Jorran had ever received before pulling back and kissing him on the temple. “Now go on, Jorran. And be a good boy. I love you, sweetling.” Tears streamed down his mother’s face.

 

With his own tears forming, Jorran nodded before grabbing one last hug before he was led away from his mother by Lord Baelish. That was the last time he ever saw her. Jorran thought of her over the years, when he was mucking out the stables or serving lords and ladies. He always thought of his Mamma and her hopes for him. 

 

Shaking himself from memories, Jorran focused back on the present. He had to get to the servant’s quarters and fast. He was just beginning to think he’d lost his way — which was impossible because he _knew_ this place — when he reached the familiar plain wooden door. One of the few that was not carved intricately in the whole of the Red Keep. Taking a gulp of air, Jorran burst inside and was greeted with a waft of warm air. 

 

Someone had lit the hearth in the middle of the room, and the light shone on all the benches, tables, and cooking ware. Jorran rushed to the fire, sighing in relief when his hands felt the warmth. He stood there a few moments before he was startled by figure in the corner of his vision. Jorran whirled around and was relieved it was only his friend, Berwyn Waters, sitting on a nearby bench and nursing a mug of ale. His friend didn’t seem to notice Jorran, for he was staring intently into the fire, seemingly lost in thought.

 

Feeling awkward, Jorran asked, “Is everything a’right, Berwyn? Where is e’eryone?”

 

After a pause, Berwyn turned his head to Jorran. Inquisitively he asked, “You mean, you don’t know?”

 

Jorran’s heart began to race and he started to sweat when he slowly asked, “Know what?”

 

“Jon Arryn is dead, Jorran,” Berwyn said softly.

 

Jorran slumped onto the nearest seat, his thoughts racing. 

 

_‘Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, DEAD?! How?!’_

 

“How?” Jorran asked aloud. “He was perfectly healthy the last I saw him three days ago!”

 

Berwyn nodded gravely, “Aye, he was. That’s why this place is so quiet, Jorran, if ye hadn’t noticed. People are frightened.”

 

Jorran asked, “Frightened? Of what?”

 

“You mean of whom,” Berwyn said. “The other servants are saying he been poisoned.”

 

Startled, Jorran said, “Poisoned? Jon Arryn? Who would do such a thing?”

 

“I dunno, Jorran. Alls I knows is that soon the King and Queen will be looking for a new Hand and there’s already rumors of who they’ll want.”

 

“Already? The man hasn’t even been buried yet!” Jorran said.

 

“A King needs a Hand, Jorran. Sides, the rumor isn’t half bad,” Berwyn stated, sipping his ale.

 

“Who do people think’ll be the next Hand?” Jorran asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

 

Berwyn looked back at Jorran, “The Queen’s own brother.”

 

A saying flit around Jorran’s head suddenly at Berwyn’s statement:

 

_Winter Is Coming_

 


	2. EDDARD I

**EDDARD I**

 

The sky was just beginning to lighten to a grey by the rising sun when the visitors finally began to pour through the great Gates of Winterfell. The two hundred and fifty strong traveling party were spotted riding towards Winterfell on the Kingsroad about two hours ago and now they were finally here. No one could doubt just who exactly had come to visit the North; the red and black banners were hard to miss and unmistakeable. 

Man after man came riding into Winterfell, a flurry of knights, bannermen and all sorts of others. Most of the men Ned did not recognize nor did he expect to; he'd not been in the Capital for some seventeen or so years. Besides, the ones he did recognize were really the only ones he cared to know. The first familiar face Ned saw was that of Ser Barristan Selmy, one of the revered men of the Kingsguard. The Kingsguard was an elite order of seven knights, all sworn to protect their king until death. Their Lord Commander, who rode in the front, was Ser Gerold Hightower, known as the White Bull. Ned had never personally known him, and so he looked past him and onto the others of whom he recognized. The other familiar face he saw within the lineup of Kingsguard was Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, and a most fearsome warrior. He rode into Winterfell just as regal as he looked, with his legendary sword Dawn strapped across his back. 

Riding right behind the Kingsguard was one of the King's trusted friends and one-time Hand, Lord Jon Connington. Since Ned saw him last, Lord Jon had grown out his red hair and acquired a beard. His countenance also seemed changed from once proud smile to one that had a grim note to it. This did not surprise Ned; anyone forced to work as Hand for the Mad King, even if for but a short while, would make anyone grim. Although, if the rumors were to be believed, that was not the only reasoning behind Lord Jon's grim smile but Ned paid little mind to mindless gossip. What Ned did pay mind to were the two people riding only slightly behind Lord Jon.

It was the King and Queen themselves, both riding astride their horses and with breathless smiles on their faces. Rhaegar, the King, looked every bit the part with his long Targaryen locks flowing down around his shoulders and his clothing that spoke of importance. A simple crown of silver and encrusted rubies sat atop his head and his eyes were smiling as he neared Ned and his family. Ned spared him a glance before finally,  _finally_ , he set his glance upon the Queen, his sister. Lyanna looked just as she did all those years ago, although that might have been on account of her clothing that reminded Ned of their youth here in Winterfell. Her long, raven black hair still hung loose to her waist with only the front bits braided away from her face. The only thing that was different was the crown on her head. It was a silver circlet, like Rhaegar's, only her's was not encrusted with rubies. It had little welded blue winter roses adorning it, making her still a Northerner.

Finally, the King and Queen reached Ned and his family in the center of the main courtyard and quickly dismounted their horses. Before Ned even had a chance to kneel, he was seized into a tight hug by Lyanna. He could have almost felt her tears of happiness wetting his furs.

As he tentatively put his arms about her in an attempt to return the embrace, Lyanna whispered in his ear, "Sweet Ned! I'm home at last!"

"Aye," Ned agreed, also whispering.

After a few more moments, the sibling separated and returned to their respective spouses. Now, as if taking a cue, the others of the royal traveling party dismounted and made themselves comfortable on the ground whilst groomsmen of both sides came and helped with the horses. Ned also noticed, coming through the Gate on foot, were four children dressed in splendid clothing and furs escorted by two Kingsguard of whom Ned knew not. The children had ridden in a large wheelhouse for the journey but it was too large to fit through the gates, so they had to enter on foot. None seemed to mind, in fact the smallest of the four, a little girl, seemed positively delighted to be on the ground and had begun to awkwardly toddle to her parents. 

 _'This must be Rhaegar's children,'_ Ned thought.  _'It seems they not only brought their own children, but the late Princess Elia's as well. Lyanna must have insisted.'_ Ned smiled fondly at the thought. Of course Lyanna treated Elia's children as her own, she was good like that.

Ned, finally remembering his formalities, knelt down in the snow covered ground and was quickly followed by the rest of his household. Looking at the snow, Ned recited, "Winterfell is yours, Your Grace."

A big, hearty laughter caused Ned to look up in surprise. Rhaegar shared a loving but amused look with Lyanna before hauling Ned to his feet. The others followed. 

Friendly patting him on the back, Rhaegar said, "Come now, Ned! We are family! No need for such formalities."

Ned flushed before replying, "My apologies, Your Grace."

Rhaegar and Lyanna only laughed again before turning to their children who were now standing with them. 

The four royal children ranged in age and looks, the two eldest being the late Princess Elia Martell of Dorne's children and the two youngest were Lyanna's. Even though Ned never met Elia, he surmised that her daughter, Rhaenys, especially favored her in looks, with her curly dark brown hair and caramel colored skin. Her youngest child, was without a doubt Rhaegar's son. The boy, Aegon, had all of the Targaryen looks, with his silvery blonde hair, fair skin, and lavender eyes. 

The other two children were Lyanna's. The oldest of the two was the Crown Prince, Jaehaerys Brandon, and Ned was taken aback by just how  _Northern_ he looked. His face was long and solemn, a characteristic of the Starks and he had his mother's jet black hair. Only his eyes gave away his Valyrian blood; they were a deep lavender that almost looked black in certain light. His younger sister, named Visenya, was only three but walking and talking confidently; obviously her mother's traits but her father's looks. Her bright violet eyes sparkled with joy at this new place.

Ned regarded each of the royal children with warmth before turning to introduce his own wife and children. His wife was Lady Catelyn of House Tully. She was very beautiful, with long red hair and bright Tully-blue eyes. Ned had never thought he'd marry her, especially since she was once betrothed to his elder brother Brandon Stark, who was heir to Winterfell, not Ned. However, two weeks after the Tourney at Harrenhal, the same tourney where Lyanna met the newly widowed Rhaegar, their brother Brandon was found murdered in the God's Eye. And so, with Ned now being heir to Winterfell, he married Catelyn instead. 

Their marriage started off rocky, of course, since Catelyn had already began to fall in love with Brandon and now was marrying his brother. They both did their duty and soon Catelyn was with child, their eldest son and heir Robb. Robb, now a man grown at six and ten,  was every bit his father's son. The only bits of Catelyn he had were his features, the curly red hair and Tully-blue eyes. In fact, all of Ned's children, bar one, had their Mother's coloring if nothing else. The only child who favored Ned in looks was his youngest daughter, his headstrong Arya. Arya was wild little thing, who hero-worshipped her Aunt Lyanna even though they'd never met, until today.

Ned watched with amused eyes as Lyanna, after greeting Cat, Robb, and Sansa, his eldest daughter, turned to an awestruck Arya. Bran, his second son, elbowed Arya in the ribs with a laugh at her expression but quieted with a look from her cold blue eyes. Lyanna giggled at the exchange, they reminded both her and Ned of Lyanna's relationship with their youngest brother Benjen, who was now a sworn brother of the Night's Watch.

At Lyanna's giggle, Arya turned back to face her, trying with all her might to look and act older than her twelve years of age. Lyanna knelt until she was eye-level with Arya and said, "Your father tells me that you wish to fight with swords. Is this true?"

Arya glanced at Ned before nodding.

Lyanna smiled and said, "Well then, maybe one day soon you can." Lyanna leaned in close, as if telling Arya a dear secret and mock whispered, "I hear of a lady from Tarth whose father allows her to sword train and she's quite the swords-woman now. Would you like to be like that, little one?"

Arya, now eager, nodded her head excitedly.

Lyanna touched her cheek before saying, "I'll see what I can do then, little one."

At this, Ned spared a glance at his wife, who was trying -and failing- to hid the frown from her face. She was greatly opposed to Arya doing anything that would hinder her teachings of becoming a lady, and she was frustrated with Lyanna's encouragement. Ned knew that Cat thought, since Lyanna was Queen, she would take Cat's side on the matter. No matter what Ned tried to tell her about Lyanna's wildness, Cat brushed him off whilst saying how Lyanna was Queen and surely threw away her childish fancies. Well, Cat was sorely disappointed. 

Finally, after the final introductions were made and everyone was quite ready to retreat into the warmth of Winterfell, Lyanna fixed her steel-blue eyes on Ned and said, "Escort me to the crypts, dear Ned. I wish to see our family."

Ned's heart warmed at the words and he called for a torch. Arm in arm, they bid goodbye to the others before making their way towards the Stark family crypts. They walked in silence, content to just enjoy the others presence. The silence was broken, however, once they reached the bottom of the narrow, winding staircase and began their walk down the long halls of the dead.

"I feel as if its only been hours since we saw each other last, but at the same time, lifetimes Ned," Lyanna said as they passed statue after statue of long gone Starks. Once, they had been Kings in the North and later Lords of Winterfell; now they were stone and statue.

"It has been but a few years, sister," Ned replied.

"Almost seventeen years," Lyanna reminded him. "And in that time, you've had  _five_ children! I never thought you'd have it in you, Ned!"

Ned flushed at her statement and said, "That is hardly appropriate, Lyanna."

Lyanna laughed, "Tis but a sister's duty to embarrass her siblings! Even those as stoic as you, Ned."

Ned flashed her wry look that she only laughed harder at. Her laughter quickly subsided, though, once they came to a halt in front of the two latest Stark memorials. The first was of Brandon, his face still just as handsome even in stone. The second was of their father, who passed away two years after Brandon, of a cold. Lyanna hadn't been able to attend his funeral but she wrote Ned of her deep sorrow and asked him to kiss their father's head for her. He did.

Lyanna, after gazing upon each of their faces, reached beneath her grey cloak and produced two wreaths of blue winter roses. Ned didn't need to ask where she acquired them; Rhaegar had a bushel imported to the Red Keep as part of her wedding gift. These two wreaths were Lyanna's way of honoring their father and brother, for she always used to make them wreaths to for them to wear when she was younger. Ned remembers her childish giggles at their great lord father, dancing around the nursery with their mother, both with wreaths on their heads. And, once Brandon was distracted, she would always plop one on his head too, and laugh with Ned at his befuddled expression until he realized what was atop his head. Ned had always willingly worn one, just to see his little sister smile her big smile.

Ned smiled warmly at this memory as Lyanna laid a wreath on each of their stone laps and gave a last curtsy of respect. She turned back to Ned, unshed tears in her eyes, and they turned away without a word spoken.

Only when they reached the spiral stairs did Lyanna speak again, "Rhaegar wishes to name you Hand of the King, Ned."

"I feared as much, sister. Why else would the King himself make over a two month long journey to the North, so soon after Jon Arryn's death. I must ask, though, why does he want me as Hand?"

Lyanna gave him a look, "You doubt your capabilities, brother. Rhaegar and I, certainly do not. However, you can always say no, Ned. No one is forcing your hand."

"Aren't they?" Ned asked and immediately wished he hadn't.

Lyanna stopped abruptly on the steps and whirled around to face him, her face hurt and angry, "Don't you ever think, brother, that I would ever force you or allow anyone else to force you into something you want no part of! You, of all people, know me better than that! If you want the full truth as to why Rhaegar and I desperately want you as Hand, here it is: We believe Jon Arryn was murdered and we need someone we can trust as Hand as we investigate. Rhaegar fears for our family, Ned. As do I."

Ned was at a loss for words. After a moment, he was able to say, " Who would want to harm you, Lyanna? I thought the kingdom was peaceful."

Lyanna sighed before replying, "It _is_ peaceful, but you know as well as I that people will attack those in power for anything.  _Especially_ if it means that they may be the ones in power. It's the game of thrones, Ned. You win or you die, and Rhaegar fears it will be us who die. Please Ned, just promise me you'll consider the offer once it's officially made. We wouldn't ask you unless we had complete faith in your abilities."

"Winter is coming," Ned replied. And he was right, winter  _was_ coming and faster than they thought.

Lyanna nodded seriously at his words and they ascended the rest of the steps in silence.  


	3. JON I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT A/N:
> 
> PLEASE READ [THIS](http://lookingaroundforlife.tumblr.com/post/117451446641) IN ORDER TO UNDERSTAND THE STORY'S DEVIANCE FROM THE ORIGINAL PLOT!
> 
> ALSO: Remember, I am taking elements from both the books AND tv show so PLEASE keep that in mind as you read.
> 
> Anyways, thanks for reading! I really appreciate all the feedback and such:)
> 
>  
> 
> SO
> 
> This story is not dead, thank the Gods, and I have every intention to keep writing...truth be told the reason I didn't post anything was because I was unsure of the direction I was going with this story, but now, after so many months, I believe I have an idea, thanks to me re-reading the books and watching the show with my Grandfather...thank you to everyone who's continued to read and I hope I don't disappoint with this new chapter!!

  **JON I**

Jon’s first impression of Winterfell was that it was very cold, and very grey, a stark contrast to the familiar walls of the Red Keep, the home he left behind to follow his parents. He shivered in his black, sable fur cloak, desperate for the warmth his Mother promised lay in the walls of Winterfell. He had never been to Winterfell before, had never ventured this far North. He wasn't sure what he made of it just yet.

 

He did not know what he expected. He’d heard many stories from his Mother, regaling him with events from before he was born - how she used to practice sword fighting in the godswood with his Uncle Benjen, now a brother of the Night’s Watch, or how she’d pick snowball fights in the courtyard.

 

The very same courtyard Jon was currently crossing, his mind on the supposed warmth of the castle walls.

 

His Mother and his Uncle had just taken their leave for the crypts, leaving Lady Stark to give the orders to have her husband’s men escort the royal family to their chambers. A guard had motioned his head and they followed, the royal children eager for warmth. Jon scooped up his little sister, Visenya, and followed his older sibling’s lead.

 

“What do you think, Vis?” Jon teased his little sister, tickling her stomach.

 

“ _Cold_ ,” giggled Visenya, trying to bat away his much larger hands with her smaller ones.

 

“Aye,” replied Jon. “But look!” He spied them arriving close to a set of wide, wooden doors. The promise of warmth lay beyond them.

 

The guard leading them opened the door and, stepping inside, immediately Jon felt better.

 

“That must be better, right?” came a voice from behind Jon and Visenya.

 

Startled, they both whipped their heads around at the sound of the voice. Jon knew who it was the instant his eyes fell upon the body of the boy that had spoken.

 

 _‘Or mayhaps he’s a man now?’_ asked a voice in Jon’s mind.

 

It was Robb. His Uncle’s first-born son. Jon was suddenly very thankful his curly, black hair covered his ears, for he felt them burn when his deep lavender eyes met Robb’s Tully blue.

 

“Oh much!” replied Rhaenys. Her kind, violet eyes crinkled as she smiled at him.

 

“The Great Keep was built over a natural hot springs,” explained Robb. “It’s what keeps this place warm. I suppose you don’t need much of that down South, do you?”

 

“Not really,” admitted Aegon, shrugging his shoulders, his white blonde hair splaying across them.

 

The guard who had led them inside fidgeted in the hallway, unsure as to whether or not to proceed to lead them to their chambers.

 

Robb seemed to have noticed the guard’s predicament for he said, “Well, I must be off. See you tonight at the feast, yes?”

 

The royal children all nodded and with one last fleeting glance where Jon’s Targaryen lavender met Robb’s Tully blue, he left them and allowed for them to continue on their way.

 

They walked throughout the various stone walls and up some steps before arriving at a set of rooms. Jon handed Visenya off to her nursemaid and bid his other siblings farewell before walking into his appointed room.

 

He nodded at the men as they brought his personal chests in, helping them set them down before ushering them out the door. He’d been stuck in the wheelhouse with his siblings for most of the ride to Winterfell; he was going to enjoy the solitude for awhile.

 

Jon enjoyed his solitude. He thought it ill fortune that he was destined to be King. One day it would be someone’s personal job to know about every single action he made; he was going to enjoy the privacy he had for as long as he could.

 

He pulled out a volume from within one of his chests: a history text that regaled the tales of Old Valyria. It was a gift from his Father on his six and ten name day. Jon had always been fascinated by stories of his ancestors and the dragons they rode. Although, if he was being honest with himself, he loved the stories his Mother told just as much, of the Old Gods of the North. Sometimes, when he was younger, he’d dreamed of walking through what he perceived as snow, except in those dreams he wasn't quite _human_.

 

He’d be padding through the snow, sniffing at the ground for a fresh kill, his mouth salivating with hunger. In those dreams, he could swear he could feel every touch of the wind against his fur, smell every smell that assaulted his nose.

 

Jon smiled sadly to himself as he flipped through the tome. He had not thought about those old dreams of his for a long time. He thought maybe he had forgotten them, but it seemed he had not.

 

In those dreams, for once in his life Jon felt truly free. Free from the responsibilities his Father had bestowed upon him, ever since he was a babe, calling him _The Prince who was Promised_ . Jon always felt a rush of confusion when he thought about it, his Father had yet to explain, promising _one day_.

 

Jon did not know if ever wanted that day to come. To know, _finally_ , what his presumed destiny was.

 

He was afraid.

 

Jon could admit that to himself, at least.

 

He shook his head, trying to chase away the bad thoughts.

 

Sooner, rather than later, it was time for the feast. A couple of Jon’s personal servants came and drew him a hot bath, so he'd be freshly clean. They poured in many sweet-smelling perfumes into the water and scrubbed his skin raw, until the stench of riding for a month had finally left him. They dressed him in his custom-tailored Northern clothes, a black doublet with matching trousers, red stitching across the front in the shape of his house sigil, the three-headed dragon.

 

He joined his siblings outside their rooms and immediately scooped up his sister. They were awfully close to one another, Jon swearing to do anything to protect her and her childlike innocence.

 

They walked together to the Great Hall of Winterfell, where the others were waiting for them to start the procession. His Mother smoothed down his curls before joining her brother, who would escort her into the Great Hall.

 

The great wooden doors opened and His Uncle Ned walked arm in arm with his sister, who looked positively glowing, back in her true home at last. Her long, raven black hair was in the style of the North, a style she hadn't worn in a long time. It curled down her back in waves, her gilded silver circlet situated in her hair with the blue winter roses.

 

His Father came next, escorting Jon’s Aunt Catelyn. She was beautiful too, with deep auburn hair the color of rust. Atop his Father’s head was his silver circlet, the encrusted rubies gleaming a blood red in the torchlight.

 

Jon put Visenya on the ground and watched her toddle down the Great Hall in her fur lined dress, her long, silver-blonde hair flowing behind her, her arm in little Rickon’s, who gently pulled her along. Next went Robb, escorting Rhaenys, who looked stunning with her deep caramel colored skin and ink black hair that was done in the Dornish style. She always insisted on having a piece of her Mother with her, a fact neither one of Jon’s parents could fault her for.

 

Bran walked alone, his head held high as he walked to the dias where he and the royal children would sit below the King and Queen and his parents. Prince Aegon escorted Sansa, looking beautiful in a light blue gown that accentuated the blue of her eyes. She looked positively enchanted by Aegon, a fact that deeply amused Jon.

 

Jon came last, escorting the stubborn little Arya, who seemed uncomfortable in her dress. Jon understood that very well; he hated to be dressed up, preferring to be in cool, comfortable clothes, but, being the Prince, that didn’t happen very often.

 

Jon was seated next Robb, a fact that burned him down to his core. Robb didn't seem to notice his inner struggle, for he poured him a cup full of summerwine, a big grin on his face.

 

“So, Prince Jaehaerys, what is King’s Landing like?” Robb’s sister, the pretty Sansa with her flame red hair, asked excitedly. Her friend next to her giggled in her ear.

 

“Please, call me Jon,” Jon smiled, taking a sip of the wine. It was sweet on his tongue and he gladly took another sip. “King’s Landing is... _something else_ . The people, the smells, everything is so _different_ than it is here.”

 

“And the Red Keep?” asked Arya, “Is it true they keep dragon skulls in the dungeons?”

 

“Arya!” Sansa chastised but Arya didn't look the least bit sorry she'd asked.

 

Jon just laughed and took a bite of meat, “Oh, yes. Seen them myself, many times. My Father believes it a rite of passage for a Targaryen to see the skulls, to remind us of our past.”

 

Arya nodded seriously and took a big bite out of her meat. Jon liked her already, she reminded him of his Mother.

* * *

The feast was in full swing, the fourth hour upon them. The Great Hall was hazy with smoke and heavy with the smell of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread. It’s grey stone walls were decorated with banners of the two houses: the red and black of the Targaryens, with their three-headed dragon, and the white and grey of the Starks, with their great direwolf.

 

Jon was on his fifth cup of summerwine and was definitely feeling it. He was laughing with Robb, after he regaled him with a story about how Arya had bested Bran with a bow and arrow, striking it right through the center of the target, whereas Bran had missed. Bran burned red at this story, muttering to himself.

 

“I’m sure you are better now,” Jon said, reaching over to ruffle his thick auburn hair.

 

“It was just last week,” Bran muttered, embarrassed, and Arya giggled.

 

“You’ll get better,” Robb said, sounding sure of himself. “It just takes time and lots of practice.”

 

Jon nodded, agreeing, taking himself another sip of wine. His ears pricked up, he heard his parents talking to Lord and Lady Stark, they seemed to be discussing something. Jon knew it was wrong to eavesdrop, but he was curious.

 

“My husband plans to wed Princess Rhaenys to Jaime Lannister,” his Mother was saying. “What do you think of that Ned?”

 

Uncle Ned shifted in his seat, uncomfortable, “If the King wishes it…”

 

“Oh, come now Ned!” Lyanna scoffed. “He’s not going to behead you if you speak your truth, isn’t that right, my love?”

 

Rhaegar inclined his head genially, saying, “Please, speak your piece Lord Stark.”

 

Jon’s Uncle Ned looked to his wife, who gave a slight nod of her head before saying, “Are you sure you can trust this man with your daughter? You know what kind of a man he is.”

 

“Jaime Lannister takes care of his family,” said Rhaegar. “He’s a bit arrogant, yes, but I have no doubt he’ll treat my daughter well. If he doesn’t, well…”

 

Jon stole a look at his half-sister, seated down beside Aegon. He remembered when his Father gave her the news, the look of pure terror on her face, the prospect of being married. But she was a princess, and swallowed that fear down. Jon only hoped he could do the same when his day came to marry.

 

“My King, how are your siblings?” Lady Catelyn asked, trying to change the subject. “I hear they are still on Dragonstone, with your Mother.”

 

“Yes,” said Rhaegar. “They are doing well. My sister, Daenerys, writes to me often.”

 

Jon was quite fond of his Aunt Daenerys. She was a lively thing, always running about, getting into trouble. She had her brother, Viserys, wrapped around her pinky finger. And for good reason, they were to be wed soon.

 

Daenerys and Jon were of an age together and spent many a time playing when they were young, either in the walls of the Red Keep when she and her Mother, the Queen Mother Rhaella, and her brother visited, or when he and his family sailed to Dragonstone occasionally. Jon thought Dragonstone was a sight to behold, with its black, towering stone walls and the carved map of Westeros that he and his Aunt Dany would spend hours pouring over, memorizing every crevice of the Seven Kingdoms.

 

“Yes,” said Lyanna. “Our Jon is quite fond of Daenerys. They’re always getting into trouble together…”

 

Jon tuned out of their conversation and turned back to his cups and Robb, who was staring at him intently. Jon felt his face burn in the low heat of the torches.

 

“What?” He asked.

 

“You don't look very Targaryen,” Robb blurted, obviously drunk on summerwine. “Except in the eyes. Everything else about you says Stark.”

 

Jon burned, “Well, you don't look much like a Stark.”

 

Robb smiled, “Aye. I have my Mother’s coloring, as do most of my siblings.”

 

Jon looked around the table on the dais at Robb’s other siblings and knew what he said was true. All of them, barring Arya, looked like their Mother, redheads gleaming in the torchlight like the sunset.

 

“Are you good with a sword, Jon?” Robb asked suddenly.

 

Jon quirked a smile, “Fairly so. What about you?”

 

Robb smirked and raised his cup to his lips, “Fairly so. Perhaps I'll challenge you to a little friendly duel tomorrow, if you’re not too hungover.”

 

Jon grinned, “I think I should be saying that about you.”

 

Robb laughed.

 

“I never get hungover,” he boasted. “My mind is a steel fortress!”

 

Jon laughed and took a bite out of a tart, “If you say so.”

 

The feast went on for many more hours into the night, Jon becoming increasingly unsteady in his seat as the night carried on. At some point, his Mother came by and introduced Jon to his Uncle Benjen, who had ridden all night from the Wall. Uncle Benjen looked like Jon's Mother, with raven black hair and ice blue eyes. He was dressed all in the black, the Night's Watch garb.

 

Jon had smiled drunkenly and shook his hand, saying, “I've always wanted to see the Wall.”

 

Uncle Benjen laughed, “Well, maybe your Mother will permit you to ride back with me in a fortnight’s time, to see it yourself.”

 

Jon’s eyes widened and he looked to his Mother, “Can I, Mother? Please.”

 

Lyanna’s face showed no flicker of what she thought, “I’ll speak to your Father about it. Now isn't it time I sent you off to bed, Visenya went hours ago.”

 

That was true. Visenya had fallen fast asleep with her head on the table, Lyanna herself excusing from the feast to put her to bed. Rickon had followed suit not long after, trailing his little legs out of the feast as if he was asleep on his feet.

 

“But Mother—” Jon tried to argue, for the first time in a long time he was actually enjoying the feast. He found himself having a good time surrounded by the Stark children, especially Robb. They felt like family already.

 

“It's alright,” Robb cut in. “If I may, Aunt Lyanna, I'd be happy to escort Jon to his chambers. I'm quite ready to retire myself.”

 

Lyanna smiled, “That'd be lovely, Robb. Thank you.”

 

Robb got up on unsteady feet and pulled Jon up as well, both of them laughing as they stumbled out of the Great Hall. Robb pulled him through the doors and out into the cold, where a few stray snowflakes were falling on the ground. Jon stared at them in wonder.

 

Robb noticed the look on his face, “Never seen snow before?”

 

Jon shook his head drunkenly, “No.”

 

“It won't snow much right now, it's far too warm for that—”

 

“ _Warm_?” Jon echoed.

 

Robb laughed, “Yes, believe it or not, today is actually quite warm for Northern standards.”

 

Jon shook his head in disbelief.

 

“I'm serious! Just wait until winter comes, _then_ it’ll be cold.”

 

Jon sobered up quickly, “I won't be here when winter comes.”

 

Robb looked at him thoughtfully.

 

“No,” he agreed. “But you’ll be feeling the bitter cold in King’s Landing too, once Winter comes, trust me.”

 

“I do,” Jon blurted, his tongue still loose from drink. His face burned bright red at his words and he looked away, completely missing how Robb’s face burned too, as red as his hair.

 

After a moment, Robb cleared his throat and asked, “Why do you want to go see the Wall so bad?” They started to walk again, across the yard and back into the warmth of the castle.

 

Jon thought for a moment, grateful for the distraction, “Because it's the most impressive man-made structure in all of Westeros, and because the Brothers of the Night’s Watch have always fascinated me, almost as much as my ancestors.”

 

“You know a lot about your ancestors?”

 

“Everything. My Father made sure we Targaryen children know the complete history of our ancestors, dating back to the times of Old Valyria.”

 

“I don't know much about the Targaryens,” Robb admitted. “Only that you’re all beautiful and ride dragons.”

 

“ _Rode_ dragons,” Jon corrected, his face burning again at Robb inadvertently calling him beautiful. “The dragons have been dead a long time, since the Dance.”

 

“The Dance, huh? Maybe you’ll have to tell me about that sometime, and in return, I tell you a bit of the Stark history.”

 

“I know about the Stark history,” Jon said stubbornly.

 

“Not all of it, I bet,” smirked Robb. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk about it, when I accompany you to the Wall.”

 

Jon was gobsmacked, “What?”

 

Robb only smirked harder and stopped walking.

 

“I believe these are your chambers, my Prince,” he said, bowing a little unsteadily. “I bid you a goodnight, _Jon._ ”

 

And with that, he walked away, leaving Jon standing in the hallway, speechless like a fool. After a moment, he collected himself and went into his chambers, closing the heavy wooden door behind him with a thud. He leaned against the door, putting a hand on his burning face.

 

 _Pull yourself together!_ He told himself, shaking out of his daze.

 

He got undressed and got ready for bed, sliding under the thick furs and trying to gather as much warmth around him as possible. Jon liked to sleep bare chested but in this cold, he thought the better of it.

 

The last thing that flitted through his mind before he drifted off into sleep, were the bright blue of Robb’s Tully eyes staring back at him, full of warmth and love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed Jon's little sister's name from Shaerys to Visenya, because somehow I forgot how Rhaegar liked to name his kids after the Aegon and his sister-wives lol


	4. LYANNA I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes! Another chapter! 
> 
> This one has smut in it, so be warned ;)

**LYANNA I**

 

 

The embers crackled in the hearth set upon in the stone wall of their room, basking Rhaegar and Lyanna in its warmth as they laid under the furs in their featherbed.

 

It was late, or early, though neither could tell for the windows were closed tightly shut against the chill of the night. Lyanna had never felt more at ease than she did at Winterfell, and lying there in her husband’s arms proved that fact to her.

 

She liked King’s Landing well enough, it was a home to her and her royal children, but here in Winterfell was where she truly belonged, and she felt that more than ever.

 

She listened to the steady beat of Rhaegar’s heart, letting the sound of it soothe her as it always did. Lyanna looked up into his handsome face, expecting to see him lost to his dreams, but was instead greeted by his light lavender eyes that stared at her tenderly, if still not a bit drunk.

 

They had allowed themselves more summerwine during the feast than they had in a long time, feeling completely safe within the walls of Winterfell. Lyanna knew without a doubt in her mind that no harm would befall them or their children.

 

“What are you thinking about, my love?” Lyanna asked her husband. He was always so lost in thought.

 

Rhaegar was silent a moment before answering, “The day we met, my sweet.”

 

Lyanna raised a dark brow, amused, “Oh, is that so?”

 

“Yes,” Rhaegar smiled his sweet, melancholy smile and kissed Lyanna’s dark hair. “I'll never forget the way you fought off those bullies of the crannogman or the way you wept when I played my harp.”

 

Lyanna smiled, remembering, “I was never one to cry at songs before, but yours brought tears to my eyes for some reason. Mayhaps it was your voice, so filled with a sadness and longing that I myself had not known or the melody, so haunting in tune that it touched my very soul.”

 

“I remember being stunned by your beauty that night, but what _really_ enchanted me, was when you unseated those bullies as—what did they call you?”

 

Lyanna laughed, “The Knight of the Laughing Tree.”

 

“Yes, that's it!” Rhaegar ran a hand through Lyanna’s dark strands, making her sigh with contentment. “I was so impressed by this Knight that I had to know his identity, so I followed him through the tourney until he stopped on the outskirts and finally revealed his face. And lo and behold! It was you, the lovely Lyanna Stark, whose tears had moved me so greatly, I had wished to cry with her that night. I was instantly in love the moment you removed your helm.”

 

“And I was in love with you, the moment you laid those blue winter roses in my lap,” Lyanna said and she leaned up to kiss him squarely on the mouth, savoring the warmth from his soft lips, feeling as though it were the first time all over again.

 

When they pulled back, she asked, “How _did_ you know that blue winter roses were my favorite?”

 

Rhaegar only smiled and winked conspiratorially.

 

After a moment, Rhaegar said, “Did you see the way our son looked at your brother’s eldest, Robb, tonight at the feast?”

 

“Aye,” said Lyanna. “And the way Robb looked at him. I know that look well, it's the look I give you all the time.”

 

“Yes,” Rhaegar’s face was sad. “If only this were a different time and place, mayhaps something could come of it. I do so want our son to be happy, but he must marry and produce an heir to the Throne.”

 

“Mayhaps something could still come of it,” said Lyanna. “You've heard the whispers of Renly Baratheon and Loras Tyrell.”

 

“Yes, but I’d hate for our son to keep his love hidden in the shadows,” Rhaegar said.

 

“I don't think Jon would mind. He's about as honor driven as his Father,” she teased. “And so is Robb. They'd both do their duty to their Houses, but still have their love to one another.”

 

“You speak as if it's already happened,” said Rhaegar, teasing.

 

“Mayhaps it has,” Lyanna said, musing aloud.

 

“Let us not talk of this anymore, it is making me far too sad,” said Rhaegar.

 

“As you wish, my love,” Lyanna acquiesced. They both knew that if Lyanna really wanted to pursue the subject, she would. She suddenly smiled deviously and sat up, her ice blue eyes sparkling with mischief, “ _I_ know what we can talk about.”

 

Rhaegar looked up at her, “Oh? And what, pray tell, may that be?”

 

Lyanna grinned and straddled him, “You and me, making another heir.”

 

“Now?”

 

“No, when Winter comes,” Lyanna playfully rolled her eyes. “Yes, _now_.”

 

“Are you sure?” Ever the cautious man, although there was a spark of lust blazing in his lavender eyes.

 

“Yes, I'm sure,” said Lyanna, leaning down and teasing her lips against his, the barest brush of them against one another. Before he could fully capture her lips with his, she sat up straight and grinned at him.

 

“Don't tease me, my love,” Rhaegar groaned.

 

“But you know it's my favorite pastime,” Lyanna said, but she reached up and undid the laces of her nightgown, exposing her milky white breasts.

 

Rhaegar growled and sat up, sliding his large hands from where they had sat on her thighs up her back, gripping her tight. Lyanna giggled at his ferocity, her beautiful dragon, and leaned in to kiss him. Their mouths tangled sweetly, Rhaegar sliding his wet tongue against Lyanna’s.

 

Lyanna moaned into his mouth, grinding her hips against his in a slow, languid dance full of passion. She grabbed his hands and put them on her breasts, guiding them over the mounds.

 

It was Rhaegar’s turn to moan low into her mouth, and they pulled away slightly to catch their breath.

 

“I love you,” Rhaegar said, breathless.

 

Lyanna smiled and held his face in her hands, “And I love you, my beautiful dragon.”

 

“My wild wolf,” Rhaegar smiled and kissed her again.

 

He kneaded her breasts with his large palms, one of them tweaking a nipple, startling a loud moan from her. He leaned down and latched onto the rosy nipple he'd tweaked, laving his tongue over the bud. He fondled her other breast before trailing that hand down between the furs, to her wet heat. She gasped as he slid a finger in between her soaking folds, teasing as he pumped it in and out slowly.

 

Lyanna ground her hips against Rhaegar’s hand. She could feel his arousal underneath her bottom, hard and tenting his night shift. Rhaegar groaned and slipped in another finger, curling them just right as they coaxed her sweet spot to life that made Lyanna see the stars in the night sky behind her eyelids.

 

“My King,” she gasped, undulating her hips faster against his hand. “I need you inside me. I need to feel complete.”

 

“Of course, my Queen,” Rhaegar gently removed his fingers and flipped them back down on the featherbed, Lyanna’s head softly hitting the pillow.

 

He pushed her blue woolen nightgown up around her navel, exposing the dark curls at the apex of her thighs. Without pause, Lyanna spread her legs, an invitation for Rhaegar to come and settle between them. Before he did that, Rhaegar removed his own nightshift, not caring in the slightest about the cold that bit his skin.

 

Lyanna smiled at the sight of her dragon, so finely muscled even after all these years, his torso gleaming pale white in the torchlight. His length pressed up against her folds, Rhaegar braced a hand by her head. Lyanna reached up her hand and grabbed hold of his wrist, steadying him.

 

They stared deep into each other’s eyes, icy blue met lavender, as he sunk inside of her. They both moaned aloud, already lost in the passion of it all. Rhaegar laced his other hand with Lyanna’s, their hands gripping each other tight as he began to make love to her.

 

Lyanna remember with clarity their first time together. It was their wedding night, and she had been so nervous. That in itself had frightened her. She was a mighty wolf, what was there to be afraid of? But her fears were abated the moment he took her into his arms on their marriage bed. He had kissed he so sweetly, so full of love, like the kiss they shared in the Great Sept of Baelor, with her Father and brother Ned and even the Mad King watching.

 

They had made sweet love that night, both of them proclaiming again and again their love for one another. And then, nine months later, their beautiful Jaehaerys Brandon was born, a babe that Lyanna loved more than life itself.

 

Lyanna prayed to the Old Gods and the New that Rhaegar would put another child in her tonight. She wanted one more, she _needed_ one more. Rhaegar slowly snapped his hips to meet hers, bringing them into a sweet dance that only they knew amongst themselves. A dance they had danced many times and never tired of.

 

They rocked the bed, breathy moans escaping them as they went after their release, although there was no rush. They would be content to be locked in this embrace for all time, as long as they had each other.

 

Lyanna loved her Rhaegar, as he loved her, and she felt within her heart that nothing could tear them apart, not even Death. She would be with him for all time, and for that, she was glad.

 

Rhaegar’s length brushed up against the sweet spot inside Lyanna and she cried out, arching her back in a way that she knew drove Rhaegar mad with lust. He growled and pressed open mouth kisses across her face, down her neck, and across her collarbone. Lyanna felt the trail he left burned her like fire, as befitted him, her great dragon.

 

She reached up her hand that was gripping his wrist and wound her fingers in his silvery locks, pulling his face close for another kiss, open mouthed and full of their love.

 

“My love,” he gasped into her mouth, “are you close?”

 

“Yes, my King,” she breathed, undulating her hips faster against his.

 

“Come for me, my fierce Lyanna, my wolf,” he said. “Come for me.”

 

He thrust once more against her sweet spot and that did it for Lyanna, sending her into the throes of passion, crying out and shaking from her release. Rhaegar followed shortly after, coming with a grunt and spilling his seed deep inside her.

 

 _Please let the seed quicken_ she prayed _I need another child._

 

They breathed heavily as they came down from their high, Rhaegar struggling to hold himself up so as not to crush her. She wanted him inside her until he softened enough to slip out, for when he was inside her was the only time she felt truly complete.

 

That time came all too soon, and his cock slipped out, surprising a gentle whimper out of her.

 

Rhaegar caressed her face, “Fear not, my love. The seed will quicken, I know it to be true.”

 

Lyanna took his hand in hers and kissed his palm, “I pray to the Old Gods and the New.”

 

“As do I.”

 

Rhaegar laid back down on the bed and Lyanna went to lay her head back on his chest, tracing invisible patterns across his skin, featherlight.

 

After a moment, Lyanna spoke again, “You know, it’s a wonder Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur can even look me in the eye after nights like these between us.”

 

That comment surprised a very unkingly snort out of Rhaegar, which pleased Lyanna greatly. It was rare for him laugh, but when he did, it was most likely because of Lyanna.

 

“They are noble knights, my love,” he said, composing himself. “Their chivalry knows no bounds.”

 

“Hmm,” mused Lyanna. “Still, I would hate to stand outside a door and listen as my King fucks his Queen.”

 

“Lyanna,” Rhaegar said, not really chastising her at all for her language. He sounded more fond than anything.

 

Lyanna grinned up at him and kissed him soundly on the mouth.

 

“I love you, my sweet Rhaegar,” she said.

 

“As I love you, my fierce Lyanna.”

 

And with those words, Lyanna laid her head back down onto his bare chest and Rhaegar covered them once more with furs.

 

After a moment, Lyanna spoke, breaking the comfortable silence, “I believe our son plans to go with Benjen back to see the Wall.”

 

Rhaegar opened his eyes at that, “Do you wish for him to go?”

 

Lyanna shrugged, “If it’s what he wants...I’ve always wanted to see the Wall myself, but have never had the chance.”

 

“Mayhaps it will be good for him,” said Rhaegar. “To see who _really_ guards the Realm.”

 

“You still believe that White Walkers roam beyond the Wall, don’t you?” Lyanna teased.

 

Rhaegar’s face was serious, “Aye. The stories said that they disappeared, not that they died. I believe they are still out there, biding their time. There’s a war coming, Lyanna, amongst the Realm and from beyond. In the end, your House’s words are always right: _winter is coming_.”

 

Rhaegar’s words chilled Lyanna to the bone, despite the warmth of the room and she held him close, wishing to chase away her fear.

 

 _Aye_ she thought to herself _winter is coming_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aren't they sweet?? I love Lyanna and Rhaegar, and I will fight anyone to death for them lol
> 
> Also, my fancasts for Rhaegar and Lyanna are:
> 
> Alexander Skarsgard - Rhaegar  
> Katie McGrath - Lyanna


	5. DAENERYS I

**DAENERYS I**

 

Daenerys ran as fast her legs could carry her through the large castle that was Dragonstone. She ran through the gallery, past a row of tall arched windows that viewed the outer bailey, the curtain wall, and the fishing village just beyond. She passed many different people as she made her way through the castle, servants and guards alike, but none of them paid her any mind. They were used to her running through the castle, she had always been a spirited little thing.

Her pale lavender skirts swished as she ran, she held them up with one hand and in the other was a rolled up piece of parchment, from her brother, the King. 

She finally made it to her destination, the door of her other brother, Viserys’, bedchambers, inside the Stone Drum, the central keep of Dragonstone. She knew he was most likely in there pouring over texts and scrolls, detailing battle strategies. He once told her it was never a bad thing to be too cautious, when she asked him why he was so intent on studying them in a time of peace in the Kingdoms. She knew he wanted to be a great warrior like their brother, but there had been little opportunity for him to prove himself, although in Dany’s eyes, he was already great.

Daenerys didn't bother knocking on the door, she knew she always welcome in her brother’s room, a lovely distraction for him. She spied him sitting at his wooden desk before a large open window, his silvery head bowed as he read a text in Old Valyrian. Amongst the table were many scrolls and old books, half of them not even in the common tongue.

Viserys didn't look up as he said, “Hello, sweet sister.”

Daenerys smiled. She loved that he could always sense when it was her, even when he did not see her. She glided across the stone floor, her lavender dress trailing on the behind her on the ground, and stood beside him.

“Hello, dear brother,” she said. She held up the tiny rolled up piece of parchment, “I just came from the Maester. I have news from our brother.”

“Oh?” Viserys looked up, tearing his eyes away from his texts. “What say he?”

“They have arrived in Winterfell, everyone is safe. I believe our brother means to name Ned Stark Hand of the King.”

“Yes,” Viserys nodded. “I figured as much. What other reason would the King himself ride to Winterfell?”

Daenerys said nothing and instead fell into his lap, startling Viserys. 

She wrapped her pale arms about his neck and said, “I miss you, Vis.”

Viserys laughed and ran a hand through her silvery hair that hung loose about her head, save for a few braids that kept it out of her face , “I haven't gone anywhere Dany, have I?”

Dany pouted, “You're always off training with your sword or pouring over your texts or in meetings with Mother. I never see you!” She buried her face in his neck as he held her close.

Viserys eased her head back away from his neck, so that their twin lavender eyes could meet. Dany felt she could see Viserys’ soul reflected in them, the same as hers. 

“You’re seeing me now, aren't you?” Dany nodded sheepishly. “I promise to be more attentive to you, sweet sister. After all, we are to be married soon.”

Dany lit up, “Mother has made the plans?”

Viserys nodded, “Aye. We are to be wed not too terribly long after our brother returns from Winterfell. He wants to be here for the momentous day.”

Dany squealed happily, her heart fit to burst out of her chest from nervousness and excitement. She couldn't help herself, she leaned up and kissed Viserys straight on the mouth. A quick little peck really, but it did the job in showing just how much she loved her brother. She couldn't  _ wait  _ to be married.

When she pulled away, she saw a spark of lust in Viserys’ eyes and giggled silently to herself. They were forbidden to touch any more than a kiss until their wedding night, but that didn't mean that neither one of them didn't want it. They both wanted to, so bad. 

Dany looked upon their fast approaching wedding night with a heart full of excitement. To finally have her dear brother, all to herself, was a dream come true and she could hardly stand the wait. She wanted to married  _ now _ but she understood the reason for the delay. She could hardly the bear the thought of her beloved brother Rhaegar not there on their wedding day, so she would content herself and wait until he returned.

“Come,” Viserys snapped his text shut and made to stand up, Dany scrambling to get out of his lap. He held out a hand and she took it without hesitation. “Let's go see Mother.”

He gently pulled her along through the stone walls of Dragonstone, passed the many carved dragons and gargoyles, down several steps and back across the gallery until they reached they Sept. They knew they could find their Mother there, for it was often she would be praying, either to the Mother for protection or to the Crone for wisdom and guidance.

They were not wrong, for they found their Mother kneeling before the great statue of the Mother, her lips moving in silent prayer, her violet eyes closed tight. Their Mother was still as beautiful as she was in her youth, her silver hair braided up away from her face in an elegant Southron style, the wrinkles doing very little to mar her lovely face. 

Dany and Viserys waited patiently until she was done, Viserys himself coming to offer an arm to help her up. Her black skirts shifted as she stood. She always wore black, ever since their Father, the Mad King, had died. Dany didn't understand that, for she knew from the whispers of the servants that her Father was very cruel to her Mother and would repeatedly beat her and rape her. Dany knew her brother would never treat her like that, their Mother made sure of it.

“Thank you, my dear boy,” Rhaella said as Viserys helped her up from her kneeling position on the floor.

“Of course, Mother,” said Viserys, walking her back to where Dany stood.

“What were you praying for, Mother?” Daenerys asked, curious.

Rhaella smiled, “For your brother’s safety whilst he is up North, for him and his wife and children.”

Dany nodded, “Yes, I pray for that too. Although, I think they’ll be safe, from what Rhaegar has said of Lord Stark, he wouldn't let any harm befall his sister or her children.”

“Nay,” said Rhaella. “He would not. Lord Stark is a good and honorable man, your brother likes him well enough.”

“Enough to name him Hand of the King,” said Daenerys as they walked out the Sept together, Rhaella’s arm still in Viserys’. Her handmaidens and personal guards trailed behind them silently. 

Rhaella nodded, “Yes, I believe we will be hosting Lord Stark soon and some of his children.”

“Doesn't Lord Stark have a daughter about Dany’s age?” Viserys asked.

“Aye. Her name is Sansa and I hear she is great beauty, like her Mother.”

Dany lit up, “Oh, I’d love to meet her! To have a friend my age near here would be lovely.”

“Well,” said Rhaella, “I'm almost positive she will be accompanying her Father to King’s Landing, for I hear she is betrothed to young Joffrey Baratheon.”

Dany and Viserys screwed up their faces at that. They had heard of this Joffrey and his cruelty, he sounded a lot like their late Father. Dany heard he liked to torture little animals, which she thought was just  _ beastly  _ of him.

“Why would the honorable Lord Stark let his firstborn daughter marry someone like  _ that _ ?” Viserys asked his Mother. Dany couldn't help but agree with his words.

Rhaella mused aloud, “Lord Stark has been friends with Lord Baratheon since they were children, they were wards of the late Jon Arryn when they were young and became quite close. Mayhaps Lord Baratheon wanted to bind their Houses.”

“Yes, after that last attempt didn't go so well,” snorted Viserys and Dany giggled into her hand.

“Viserys! Daenerys!” Their Mother scolded, though her violet eyes were warm.

“Sorry, Mother,” they chorused. 

“Why wouldn’t he marry her to his eldest?” Viserys asked after a moment. “What was his name, Gendry?”

“Yes,” their Mother nodded, then gave a dainty shrug. “I know not. Mayhaps Gendry does not wish to marry yet.”

“Who would not want to marry?” asked Daenerys. Viserys winked at her and she blushed a pretty pink.

Rhaella smiled her daughter, “There are many who are afraid of the prospect of marriage, I know I was.”

There was a silence at that. Their feet echoed as they walked the stone floor of Dragonstone.

No one wanted to bring up their Father and his cruelty, so instead Dany said, “Well, I believe it’s lovely that Lord Stark is becoming Hand. I think it will be quite fortuitous for the Realm.”

“As do I,” said Rhaella. “He will no doubt do his duty well to your brother. I believe the Realm will flourish further under their combined powers.”

They walked the stone walls in silence a moment before Dany spoke again, “Mother, Viserys told me you’ve begun making plans for our wedding day.”   
  


Rhaella arched a brow at Viserys, who turned bright pink under his Mother’s gaze, “Did he?”

Viserys tried to defend himself, “You know I cannot keep secrets from Dany, Mother. One look into her lavender eyes and I’m spilling my soul!”

Dany’s heart lept at that but she said nothing, watching her Mother’s face as she smiled gently.

“I know, my boy,” said Rhaella. “And that is a good quality to have in your impending marriage.”

“So, Mother,” Dany said, once she was certain she had not gotten her dear brother into trouble, “what  _ are _ the plans?”

“The  _ plans _ are to have you two wed a moon’s turn after your brother returns from Winterfell,” said Rhaella. “We have much to do in the meantime, for I count at least three hundred for your wedding celebration.”

“Three hundred?” Dany echoed. “Who would that all be?”

“Well, I expect the Baratheons and the Lannisters to be there, for they will be in the Capital awaiting the marriage of Jaime Lannister and Rhaenys, and also some of the Tyrells from Renly’s marriage to Lady Margaery and some of Lord Stark’s family, too,” said Rhaella. 

“Wow,” said Dany, imagining it in her mind. 

She and Viserys, standing the Sept in Dragonstone, wed beneath the Seven by their Septon, in front of their brother and his family and their Mother, plus the Lannisters and Baratheons and Tyrells and Starks. She could see herself in a beautiful gown of white silk, hopefully her own brother Rhaegar escorting her down the aisle. Viserys, dressed in his most comely garb, smiling tenderly at her as they made their vows to one another. Then would come the feast, and the bedding…

“Would Rhaegar escort me down the aisle?” Dany asked as they came upon their Mother’s bedchambers.

“Yes,” said Rhaella. “Of course.” She fingered Daenerys’ silver hair and said after a moment, “I need you to get a good night’s rest tonight, my Stormborn, for tomorrow we will be having your gown fitted and that may take most of the day.”

Dany nodded seriously, “Of course, Mother.”

Rhaella nodded at her children and said, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a dozen more preparations to make, for the wedding will be here before we know it.” 

Viserys and Daenerys said their goodbyes to their Mother and watched her retreat into her bedchambers with her handmaidens. Her guards stood sentry outside her doors, ever vigilant upon the late Queen. 

Once she was gone, Dany turned to her brother, “Can you believe the time is almost upon us?”

“Nay,” said Viserys. “When Mother told me, I thought it almost too good to be true, but now it’s here and it’s real.”

Daenerys smiled and held out her hand, “Will you come play with me in the gardens, dear brother?”

Viserys smiled, looking very much like their brother Rhaegar in that aspect and said, “Always, sweet sister.”

They locked their fingers and Dany began to run, run towards the gardens and towards their future,  _ together. _

****  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, I know Daenerys and Viserys are like two different people than they are in the books/show but I believe, with their different upbringing, that that would shape them into someone else, but don't worry, Dany will still be a BAMF, the progression just might be different


	6. ROBB I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, these chapters are coming out of me like water! I hope everyone enjoys this one...I can't tell y'all how much of a personal favorite it is of mine ;) more to come!!

**ROBB I**

 

_Clank!_

 

_Clank!_

 

_Clank!_

 

Went the sound of steel hitting steel. Robb was embroiled with the practice of swords with Theon, of House Greyjoy, his Father’s ward. When Robb was young and King Rhaegar Targaryen’s rule was new, House Greyjoy decided to go into open rebellion, as they were wrought to do many times over the centuries. With the combined forces of Targaryen, Stark, Lannister, and Baratheon, they quickly crushed the rebellion and Lord Balon surrendered, giving his youngest son, Theon, as Ned’s ward.

 

He and Theon were as close as brothers, although sometimes Theon’s ways did much to annoy Robb, as any brother would. They were fighting under the watchful eye of their master-at-arms, Ser Rodrik Cassel, who was a keg of a man with a impressive set of white whiskers. Many others watched them as well, including Arya, who, of course, skipped out on her stitching with Sansa and the Princess Rhaenys. She stood next to the Crown Prince, Jon, who was watching Robb’s every move as he made it.

 

Robb could feel his face burning under the scrutiny and pushed himself to strike harder and true. He so wanted to impress Jon, for every time he looked at him, his heart began to beat as fast as a war drum in his chest, fit to burst.

 

Jon was the most beautiful creature Robb had ever laid eyes upon, with his pale, sullen face and expressive violet eyes that lit up like amethyst when he smiled. His clothing suited him nicely, a black doublet with the red Targaryen dragon emblazoned across the front and a great white pelt of fur across his shoulders and his sable cloak that flowed down to his feet.

 

Robb felt this intense need to be around Jon always, ever since he talked to him the night before, after the feast when he walked him to his chambers. He was so kind and smart, everything Robb admired in a person.

 

“Oi!” Theon smacked Robb with the blunt edge of his blade. “Quit ogling at the Prince and fight me!”

 

“I was not _ogling_ ,” said Robb defensively, but he did as Theon said and fought back.

 

They fought long and hard, but eventually, Robb got the better of Theon and threw him on his back on the straw and dirt of the courtyard, his sword aimed at his throat. Theon didn’t mind when Robb won during their sparring sessions, they both knew he was the better archer of the two anyway.

 

“I win,” Robb smirked, before removing his sword and holding out a hand for Theon to take.

 

Theon grinned and took his hand, allowing himself to be pulled up. There was clapping in the distance behind them and Robb turned to see Jon, Arya, and Bran clapping, Arya most enthusiastically. Robb grinned and made his way over to them, leaning against a post that separated him from them.

 

“Did you enjoy the fighting, little sister?” He asked, sweaty and out of breath.

 

Arya nodded excitedly, “Very much! Prince Jon said you are skilled fighter!”

 

Robb turned to Jon, who flushed like a maid. Robb thought it suited him.

 

“Did he?” He teased. “I believe I recall you saying something about being a skilled fighter as well, my Prince.”

 

Jon smirked at that, “Fairly so.”

 

Robb grinned and motioned for him to come out from behind the post, “Why don’t you come out from behind that post and show me what you are made of?”

 

Jon grinned, “I’d hate to hurt you, little Lord.”

 

Robb smirked, “And I’d hate to hurt you, little Prince.”

 

Arya giggled at the two of them.

 

Jon smirked and unfastened his cloak, laying it across the post. Someone escorted him to go and change into suitable sparring clothes. He came out a few moments later dressed in some metal pieces that fit him suitably, they were much nicer than the ones that even Robb wore. His sword hung at his side, an impressive thing with a red dragonhead pommel.

 

“My Prince,” said Ser Rodrik, bowing humbly. “If I may, your sword is Valyrian steel, is it not?”

 

“Yes,” Jon blinked at him. “It’s name is Vhagar.”

 

“A wonderful name, your Grace,” said Ser Rodrik. “And you wish to put it against regular steel?”

 

“That is alright, is it not?” Jon asked, looking uncertain.

 

“Oh, most certainly, most certainly,” said Ser Rodrik. “I just wanted to make certain.”

 

Jon nodded at him and he and Robb got into their prospective fighting positions across from each other in the courtyard. Out of the corner of his eye, Robb could see many more people had gathered to watch, much more interested in seeing the Crown Prince show off his fighting skills. Most of Winterfell had seen Robb fight since he was but a lad, but Jon was something new and exciting. Even Theon looked interested as Robb and Jon unsheathed their swords.

 

“Swords ready!” yelled Ser Rodrik. He held up an arm then brought it down, signalling the beginning of the spar.

 

Robb twirled his sword and stepped forward, Jon doing the same. They danced around each other a few paces before Robb decided to make the first move, slashing his sword through the air, aiming to catch across Jon’s chest, but he sidestepped at the last moment and stepped around him, catching Robb swiftly across the back and knocking him forward with the blunt of his sword.

 

Robb whooshed a bit, that blow knocking the air right out of him. He was impressed, Jon was a good fighter. Before Jon could catch him while his back was turned, Robb swirled around and caught Jon’s sword mid-swing in the air, the sound it made when the two swords collided clanging loudly across the courtyard.

 

Jon grinned at him and jerked his sword back, turning it over in his hand as if it were a light stick and not a heavy Valyrian steel sword. Robb stepped forward again and slashed out his sword out, Jon catching it with his own and forcing it away, swinging it back up quickly before Robb could move in his heavy mail and aimed it at Robb’s throat.

 

“I win,” he grinned and Robb couldn’t help but grin back.

 

There was noises of surprise and shouts of good fortune from the lookers on, but Robb paid them no mind. He was too busy staring into Jon’s lovely eyes, lost in the flecks of violet and onyx.

 

“I am impressed, my Prince,” Robb said once Jon had lowered his sword. “No one has ever bested me so quickly before.”

 

Jon smiled shyly, all of his confidence he had in fighting gone.

 

“It was nothing…”

 

“It wasn’t _nothing_. The way you moved was almost unparalleled,” Robb praised, enjoying to see the pretty pink flush on Jon’s face. “Who taught you to sword fight?”

 

“My Father wanted some of the most skilled fighters in the Seven Kingdoms to train me and my half-brother, Aegon, so he had Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur train us when they were off rotation,” said Jon.

 

“Trained by Ser Barristan the Bold and Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning?” asked Robb incredulously. At Jon’s nod, he whistled low, “Impressive.”

 

Jon flushed again and wiped the sweat from his brow.

 

“How'd you get a Valyrian steel sword?” asked Robb. “I thought they were all gone, save for the ones already made…”

 

“There are a few Valyrian steel forgers left in the world,” said Jon. “My Father commissioned one of them to come and make swords for our family. The one he had found was near Old Valyria and still had access to Valyrian steel found in the desecration.”

 

Robb studied his face a moment before saying, “Say, have you ever seen a weirwood tree?”

 

Jon shook his head no, saying, “There is only a great oak in the godswood of the Red Keep. Red dragon’s breath grows beneath it.”

 

“Well, you haven’t _lived_ until you’ve seen a weirwood,” said Robb. “They are most impressive. I would like to take you to see it, if you would like.”

 

Jon flushed and nodded his head, “I would.”

 

Robb grinned, “Wonderful. Meet me here in the courtyard after supper, there I shall take you.”

 

Jon nodded and took his leave, leaving Robb standing there watching his gorgeous backside as he walked away.

 

“Not ogling, he says,” mocked Theon as he came up beside him. “You got a thing for pretty princes now, Robb?”

 

It was Robb’s turn to flush, “ _No_.”

 

Theon rolled his eyes, “Right.” He looked off at Jon walking away, “He does have a nice arse, though.”

 

Robb smacked him with the hilt of his blade, causing him to double over in pain. He could hear Arya and Bran’s giggles from behind the post. He made his way back to his own chambers, to clean up for the night. He had the servants draw him a nice steaming bath, and had them pour in some sweet smelling perfumes. He didn’t want to smell like a horse’s arse when he charmed the pants off of Jon.

 

Yes, that was what he was going to do. Robb knew he was handsome and could use his looks and his charms to get just about anything he wanted, and he wanted Jon. He wanted him so bad his cock sprang to life just thinking about Jon’s pretty face as he sat in his bath. He grasped his cock with one hand, groaning at the sensation of it wrapping around him tightly. He gave himself a few languid strokes, resting his auburn head against the wooden edge of the tub.

 

In his mind’s eye, he pictured Jon’s face, on his back, on all fours, on his knees, staring up at Robb as he fucked him with abandon. He hoped that would happen in the godswood, he didn’t care that it would practically be a sin to do it there, he figured the Old Gods wouldn’t mind much. It was the New ones with all the rules, his Mother’s Gods.

 

He stroked himself to completion fast and watched as the the water turned spotted with his release. He figured it was time to get out of the bath, lest he make himself dirty again and changed into his lordling clothes of brown leather and wool. He needed to go and speak with his Father before supper and formally ask his permission to go to the Wall with Jon, although Robb knew he would not take no for an answer.

 

He found his Father where he knew he would be, in his study with Maester Luwin and Robb’s Mother, Lady Catelyn. They seemed to be discussing something, but hushed when he was called through the door.

 

“Robb,” said his Mother pleasantly. “I heard you practiced sword fighting with the Prince today.”

 

“Aye,” said Robb. “And he bested me, quickly. He sure knows how to swing a sword.”

 

Ned laughed a little, “I would expect nothing less from Lyanna’s son. What brings you here to my study, Robb?”

 

Robb stood up a little straighter and puffed out his chest a bit, to make himself seem older, “I would like to ask your permission to go with Prince Jon to visit the Wall when the King and his people part for King’s Landing.”

 

Ned raised a brow at that, “The Wall? Whatever for?”

 

Robb rattled off what Jon had told him last night, “It is the most impressive man-made structure in all of Westeros and because the Brother’s of the Night’s Watch have always fascinated me.”

 

His Mother looked at him, her Tully blue eyes sharp, “I never knew that.”

 

Robb flushed but didn’t look away from his Father, who seemed to be thinking.

 

After a moment, he said, “I suppose you can go, to keep the Prince company.”

 

Catelyn startled, “But Ned, what abo--”

 

Ned raised a hand, silencing her, “I trust you to be back before the next moon’s turn, understood? For there must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

 

Robb was confused, but nevertheless excited about the fact that he was allowed to go.

 

“Now run along,” said Ned. “Me, your Mother, and Maester Luwin have things we need to discuss.”

 

Robb nodded and gave a courtesy bow before taking his leave. His heart leapt at the fact that in less than a fortnight's time, he would be travelling to the Wall with Jon. More time to spend together, hopefully naked and under the furs.

 

 _If he doesn’t reject you tonight_ said a voice in his head.

 

That thought depressed him greatly. All he’d been thinking about where his own feelings and plans for Jon and hadn’t considered for a moment Jon’s. What if he didn’t even like boys? But he must, for the way he would flush when Robb complimented him. Robb determined himself to find out tonight, in the godswood, and hoped with all his might that what he thought was true.

 

That night he went to sup in the Great Hall with the royal family and his own. It was still packed with the visitors from all around the North who had come to see the King. The Hall was reminiscent of last night at the feast.

 

Robb sat at a trestle table with his siblings and spied Jon sitting next to his Mother, Robb’s Aunt Lyanna, on the dias next to Robb’s Mother and Father and the King. The adults seemed to be discussing something and Jon was currently engaged with his little sister Visenya, who seemed to be utterly enthralled by her big brother. Robb smiled as he watched them play, Jon seemed like a good older brother.

 

The Great Hall hushed when suddenly King Rhaegar stood and cleared his throat. It seemed he was going to make an announcement. Robb and his siblings sat up, very interested in what the beautiful Targaryen King would have to say.

 

“Good people of the North,” said King Rhaegar in his lovely voice. “Your hospitality knows no bounds. I would like to personally thank each and every one of you for showing me and my children such kindness. I am most grateful for the warm welcome I was given last night. I must confess, although my lovely Queen expressed her want to come and visit her homeland, that is not the only reason why I have travelled such a long way.”

 

The Great Hall erupted in chatter, the servants all talking amongst themselves as to what the King could have meant by _that_. Rhaegar hushed them again with a raise of his hand.

 

“I have come here to formally ask Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North, to be my Hand.”

 

The Hall erupted in chatter again, this time the Stark children joining in.

 

“Father?” asked Arya. “Hand?”

 

“I think it’s a dream,” said Sansa, gazing at Rhaegar admiringly.

 

The Hall hushed again when Ned stood before the King and bowed his head.

 

“I am not worthy of the honor,” he said humbly.

 

Rhaegar laughed and clasped his hands on Ned’s shoulders, “You do yourself a disservice, Lord Stark! You are more than worthy and I believe, with our combined powers, we shall make the Realm flourish! So, what say you, Ned? Will you be my Hand?”

 

The Hall was silent as they awaited Lord Stark’s answer. After a long pause, where Robb thought he might say no, his Father nodded his head and the Hall erupted in cheers. Rhaegar laughed again, mightily, and shook Ned’s hand, looking quite pleased.

 

“Good ladies and gentlemen of the North, I give you the Hand of the King!” Rhaegar shouted and the Hall cheered again, the Stark children among the loudest. Robb saw Jon smile beautifully up at his Father and Uncle, looking happy at this arrangement.

 

Eventually, things settled down and people went back to their food, although the talk was much more livelier. Robb scarfed down the rest of his meal, barely even tasting it at it went down his throat and made to stand up. He caught Jon’s eye and motioned with his head towards the doors. Jon nodded slightly and turned to his Mother, obviously asking for her leave. She happily acquiesced and Jon joined Robb at the back of the Hall.

 

“Excited to see the weirwood?” Robb asked as the guards opened the great wooden doors for them and they poured out into the chilly air.

 

“Yes,” said Jon as they walked down a little pathway and under a gate and came out on the other side by the Smithy.

 

“So your Father is going to be Hand,” said Jon, after a moment as they walked.

 

“Aye,” said Robb. He didn’t want to think about what that entailed for him, the implications frightening him. His face must have betrayed his thoughts for Jon said not a word more on the subject.

 

They walked North and passed the stone well by the courtyard and the Library Tower and then went under another gate, coming out into the godswood.

 

It was quiet here. It smelled of mist and decay, home to a ten thousand year old forest as big as three acres. Robb watched Jon’s face as they entered, seeing the look of wonder that flickered across it.

 

“What do you think?” He asked as they picked their way through the forest towards the center of the grove, where the heart tree stood before a pool full of water as black as night.

 

“It’s very quiet,” said Jon. “And dark.”

 

Robb laughed, “Aye, that it is. Do you mind?”

 

Jon shook his head, “Not at all. I prefer the quiet and the darkness, actually.”

 

Robb grinned, “Keep to the shadows, do you?”

 

Jon nodded sheepishly, “Funny thing, isn’t it? For a Crown Prince.”

 

“I don’t think so,” said Robb. “A man likes what he likes, and you prefer the quiet. Nothing wrong with that.”

 

Jon looked away, and said after a moment of silence, “Sometimes I think it would better if my brother, Aegon, was Crown Prince. He certainly has the looks of a Targaryen King.”

 

Robb looked at him, saying nothing.

 

“It was going to be that way, you know,” said Jon silently. “Aegon was going to be Crown Prince, but before my grandfather, the Mad King, died, he made my Father swear to name me heir apparent before the High Septon. A last touch of madness, claimed the Dornish. They’ve never forgiven my Father for agreeing, but what could he do? His Father was King and no one can say no to a King.” Robb hated how sad Jon sounded and he so wanted to cheer him up.

 

He looked up and spied the weirwood between the trees, “Look! There it is!”

 

Jon looked to where Robb was pointing and his whole face changed. Robb thought he looked beautiful. Robb grabbed his hand, ignoring the way Jon startled, and ran with him the rest of the way to the heart tree. They stopped at its base and Jon stared at it in awe.

 

“It’s beautiful,” whispered Jon. It was, with bark as white as bone and the leaves the same red as the sap that dripped out of the face carved into the tree by the Children of the Forest millennia ago. 

 

“Aye, it is,” said Robb. He considered Jon’s face a moment before deciding to go with it and said, “So are you.”

 

Even in the darkness, Robb could see the way Jon flushed and he felt his chest fill with an odd sensation.

 

“Why do you say such things?” Jon asked, turning away from him.

 

“My Father taught us to always speak the truth,” said Robb, touching his shoulder. “So that is what I am doing.”

 

Jon flushed an even brighter red.

 

“Well, you shouldn’t,” he said, brushing off his hand.

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because, it is forbidden in the eyes of the Seven for a man to be with a man,” said Jon, looking at his leather-clad feet.

 

Robb looked around, “Do you see the Seven here now? All I see are the faces of my Father’s Gods, and they don’t care much for rules.”

 

Jon looked up at that and glanced at the bleeding red face carved into the weirwood tree. When Robb was a boy, he thought it scary and imposing. Now, he thought it a familiar face, like an old friend’s.

 

Jon spoke slowly and looked up at Robb through his long, pretty lashes, “I suppose not…”

 

Robb grinned and wound his arm around Jon’s middle, pulling him close until their noses were but a breath apart.

 

“I do so wish to kiss you,” Robb whispered, glancing down at Jon’s pouty mouth.

 

Jon burned and looked away, “I don’t know…”

 

Robb wasn’t used to begging, but for Jon, he was quickly coming to find out, he’d do anything.

 

“Please,” he whispered. “There’s no one here but us.”

 

“No one but us and your Old Gods,” said Jon, smiling a little.

 

Robb laughed at that, “Yes, no one but us and the Old Gods.”

 

Jon twisted his face, considering. Robb waited with baited breath for his answer. The godswood was as silent as the dead as he waited. Finally, Jon answered.

 

“Okay,” he said simply.

 

“Okay?” Robb repeated, a slow smile spreading across his face.

 

Jon couldn’t seem to stop himself from smiling too and nodded. Robb grinned bright and put Jon’s face in his hands, pulling his face close. Their noses brushed and they both seemed to stop breathing as Robb _finally_ put his lips on Jon’s.

 

Time seemed to stop.

 

Jon’s lips were soft and supple, just like how Robb imagined they would be, and a little inexperienced as he kissed back, but Robb didn’t mind. In fact, that excited him. He’d get to teach Jon everything he knew, which admittedly was not much. Most of what he knew where from the tales of Theon from the brothels, but Robb didn’t want to treat Jon like a whore.

 

He wanted to treat Jon like a Prince.

 

They pulled away and Robb was pleased to note that Jon was breathless, his face flushed all pretty.

 

“Did you like that?” Robb asked, caressing his thumbs over Jon’s high cheekbones.

 

Jon nodded. It seemed he was unable to form words.

 

“Good,” said Robb. “Hopefully we’ll be doing a lot of that while we visit the Wall.”

 

Jon raised a dark brow, “Oh? So you are going?”

 

“Yes,” said Robb, smiling proudly. “I asked my Father this afternoon and he agreed to let me go.”

 

Jon smiled a little, “I'm glad.”

 

“Me too.”

 

Then Robb leaned in and captured Jon’s lips once more, finding out quickly that kissing his beautiful, pouty lips would soon become an addiction.

 

One Robb never wanted to quit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah, Jon and Robb had their first kiss pretty fast but I totally am of the opinion that future Lord of Winterfell Robb would know what he wants and would want it now sooo...yeah. Hopefully no one is complaining ;)
> 
> More Jon x Robb goodness to come!!
> 
> And please, I really appreciate all of your comments so keep them coming!! It really motivates me to write more!!


	7. BRAN I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, for this chapter, I had to borrow heavily from the first Bran chapter in A Game of Thrones but I promise that will not happen often! I try to make this story my own as much as possible, but it just so happened that this chapter needed to be closer to the original story...
> 
> Anyways, despite that, I hope you all enjoy this chapter and please feel free to leave comments and the like! 
> 
> (But please, be nice about it lol)

**BRAN I**

 

It had been a cold, clear morning that day in the North and Bran had never been more excited and fearful as he mounted his pony. He and his Lord Father, and the King, along with the Crown Prince, Jon, and his half-brother, Aegon, and Bran’s eldest brother, Robb, were setting out to go and behead a deserter of the Night’s Watch.

 

The word came of the deserter as Bran had been practicing archery in the courtyard with his brothers and the princes while the King and his Queen, along with Ned and Bran’s mother, Catelyn, watched them from up above.

 

Bran had been burning as red as his hair as every single one of his arrows missed their target. He had so wanted to impress the royal family, to show them he had the makings of a good knight, but so far he had been doing a poor job of it. 

 

Prince Jon however, was most patient with him, and kept giving him pointers on how to notch the arrow and hold the bow, that eventually Bran’s last arrow had hit their target. It was nowhere near the bullseye but it had hit the outer rim, and that pleased Bran well enough.

 

“Well done, Bran,” called Ned from up above.

 

Bran preened at the praise.

 

He was about to fetch a fresh set of arrows when Maester Luwin came bustling by, up the wooden stairs to where the King and Queen and Bran’s parents stood. Bran looked up and watched as he spoke in hushed tones to them, all of them looking very grave suddenly.

 

“What do you think they are talking about?” Bran asked his brother, Robb.

 

Robb shrugged his shoulders, his eyes never straying far from Jon, “Mayhaps a raven came. You know the saying—”

 

“Dark wings, dark words,” finished Bran, and he was right.

 

Soon enough, Ned and the King descended the wooden steps and told the boys to mount up their horses, they were going to see a man beheaded. Bran had felt a flutter of excitement and twinge of fear at the announcement, he had never seen a man beheaded before. This would be the first time he was deemed old enough to see his Father serve the King’s justice, and to have the King actually  _ there _ .

 

The deserter had been taken outside a small holdfast in the hills. Bran and the others saw him, bound hand and foot to the holdfast wall, awaiting the King’s justice. He didn't look that much taller than Robb. The man had lost both ears and a finger to frostbite, and he was dressed all in black, like all of the Brother’s of the Night’s Watch, except his furs were ragged and greasy, unlike Bran’s uncle Benjen, who sat atop his own horse, looking stony.

 

Bran looked to the King and his sons, who sat atop their horses tall and solemn, and very much like a royal family. Jon had a sad look in his eye as he looked at the deserter, although Bran knew not why. 

 

Bran, being only ten, tried as he might to copy the look of the King and his sons, but he felt that he failed miserably. His pony was not cooperating, it could smell the impending scent of Death on the air and was getting increasingly spooked. Robb guided his horse beside Bran’s and took his pony’s reins in hand, calming the horse down, Bran giving him a thankful smile.

 

Bran’s Father sat solemnly on his horse, his long brown hair stirring in the wind. He had a grim cast to his ice blue eyes that day, not at all looking like the man who would sit before the fire in the evening and talk of the age of heroes and the children of the forest. He wasn't wearing his Father face, thought Bran, but he donned the face of Lord of Winterfell.

 

His Lord Father gave a command and the man was brought before him and the King, all the while muttering to himself.

 

“I saw ‘em,” the man muttered, “I saw ‘em. I saw the White Walkers. I saw ‘em.”

 

Bran looked at his Father’s face, that betrayed nothing, and then to the King’s. His eyes looked troubled and sad, like his son’s, as he heard the man mutter what Bran perceived as nonsense.

 

Lord Eddard and King Rhaegar dismounted their horses, along with Benjen, and the Kingsguard. They had the guards drag the ragged man to the ironwood stump in the middle of the square. Theon Greyjoy, Lord Eddard’s ward, moved to bring forth his sword but Lord Eddard held out a hand and stopped him. He turned to the King.

 

“Would you like to do the honors, Your Grace?” He asked.

 

The King fingered the sword at his side but said, “The honor is yours, Lord Stark. This is your home.”

 

Lord Eddard nodded his head and took his sword from Theon. It was named “Ice” and was as wide across as a man’s hand and even taller than Robb. The blade was Valyrian steel, like the ones the Targaryen’s used, spell-forged and dark as smoke. Nothing held an edge like Valyrian steel.

 

Bran’s Father peeled off his gloves and handed them to Jory Cassel, the captain of his household guard. He took hold of Ice with both hands and said, “In the name of Rhaegar of the House Targaryen, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die.” He lifted the great sword high above his head.

 

Robb whispered to Bran, “Keep your pony well in hand. And don't look away, Father will know if you do.”

 

Bran did as he said, not even flinching as his Father took off the man’s head with a single stroke of his sword. Blood splayed out across the snow, as red as summerwine. Bran couldn't keep his eyes off the blood, the snow around the stump drank it eagerly, reddening as he watched. 

 

The head bounced off a thick roof and rolled. It came near Theon’s feet, who at nine and ten thought everything was amusing. He laughed, put a boot on the head, and kicked it away.

 

“Ass,” Bran heard Prince Jon mutter to his half-brother, who nodded his head in agreement. 

 

Robb put a hand on Bran’s shoulder and said, “You did well.” At six and ten, Robb was an old hand at justice.

 

It seemed colder on the long ride back to Winterfell, though the wind had died by then and the sun was higher in the sky. Bran rode with his brother and the princes, well ahead of the main party, though his pony struggled to keep up with their horses.

 

“The deserter died bravely,” said Robb, casting a look at Jon by his side. Bran noticed that his broad chest was puffed up, and he seemed to be waiting for something. For what, Bran did not know.

 

“No,” said Prince Jon quietly, eyeing Robb. “It was not courage. This one was dead of fear. You could see it in his eyes, Stark.” Bran had heard whispers throughout the castle ever since the royal party had arrived, that Prince Jon had the prettiest eyes of the whole Targaryen brood, and Bran was quick to agree with them. They were of a deep purple that almost seemed black, though they shined of violet and amethyst in the correct light.

 

“Mayhaps you’re right,” mused Robb. “Now that I think about it, I think I did detect a flicker of fear in his face,  _ Targaryen _ .”

 

Bran didn't miss the way Jon’s face flushed as he looked at Robb out of the corner of his eye or the small, tender smile on his face and he wondered what that was about. 

 

“He died well, in any case,” continued Robb. Then he paused, and smiled at Jon, “Race you to the bridge?”

 

“Done,” said Jon, kicking his horse forward. Robb cursed and followed, and they galloped off down the trail, Robb laughing and hooting, Jon silent and intent. Showers of snow was kicked up by the hooves of their horses as they went.

 

Bran didn't even attempt to follow, he knew his horse could not keep up. Instead, he rode alongside the prince Aegon, both of them silent, lost in thought. 

 

Bran kept thinking about the man’s eyes and what Jon had said about them. Mayhaps he did see a flicker of fear in them, though his mind was so muddled it was hard to remember clearly.

 

He was so deep in thought that he didn't hear the sound of hooves approaching as the rest of their party caught up and his Father came to ride beside him. 

 

“Are you well, Bran?” He asked, not unkindly.

 

“Yes, Father,” said Bran and he looked up. Lord Eddard was wrapped in his furs and leathers, mounted on his great warhorse. He loomed over Bran like a giant, and the King, who rode beside him, wasn't any better. “Robb said that the man died bravely, but Prince Jon says he was afraid.”

 

“I think so too,” said the King, musing in thought. Bran was under the impression he did that a lot, his beautiful face turned melancholy and solemn.

 

“What do  _ you  _ think?” Bran’s Father asked.

 

Bran thought about it, “Can a man still be brave if he is afraid?”

 

“That is the only time a man can be brave,” his Father told him.

 

“Aye,” agreed the King, nodding his silver head with his crown of silver and encrusted rubies atop it.

 

“Do you understand why I did it?” Bran’s Father asked.

 

“Our way is the old way,” said Bran.

 

“Aye,” said Lord Eddard. “The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.”

 

“I've always admired you Starks for that,” said King Rhaegar. “In truth, I believe I'd get too sad if I had to personally behead every man who I passed the sentence along to.”

 

Lord Eddard quirked a smile at him.

 

“You are King,” he said. “If you had to personally behead every man who you passed the sentence to, you’d hardly ever get any rest.”

 

King Rhaegar laughed a little at that, “Aye, mayhaps.” He looked as if he was about to say more, when Robb appeared at the crest of the hill before them.

 

He waved and shouted down at them, “ _ Father! Bran! Your Grace, come quickly, see what Jon has found! _ ”

 

Jory rode up beside them, “Trouble, my lord?”

 

“Beyond a doubt,” said Lord Eddard.

 

King Rhaegar laughed, heartily this time, “Come, Lord Stark. Let us see what mischief our sons have rooted out.” He set his horse into a trot, Lord Eddard and the others following behind.

 

They found Prince Jon on the riverbank north of the bridge, with Robb still mounted beside him. The late summer snows had been heavy this afternoon. Jon stood knee-deep in white, his curly black hair gleaming in the sunlight. He was cradling something in his arm, while he and Robb talked in hushed, excited voices.

 

The riders picked their way through the drifts carefully, groping for solid footing on the hidden, uneven ground. Jory Cassel and Theon Greyjoy were the first to reach the boys. Theon was laughing and joking as he rode but Bran heard the breath go out of him.

 

“ _ Gods! _ ” He exclaimed, struggling to keep control of his horse as he reached for his sword.

 

Jory’s sword was already out, “My Prince, get away from it!” He called as his horse reared under him.

 

Jon smiled a rare grin and looked up from the bundle in his arms, “She can't hurt you. She's dead, Jory.”

 

Bran was alight with curiosity and would have spurred his pony faster, but his Father made them dismount beside the bridge and approach on foot. Bran jumped off and ran.

 

By then Robb, Jory, and Theon had all dismounted as well.

 

“What in the Seven Hells is it?” Theon had asked.

 

“A wolf,” Robb told him, looking at the bundle in Prince Jon’s arms.

 

“A freak,” said Theon. “Look at the  _ size  _ of it!”

 

Bran's heart was thumping in his chest as he pushed through a waist-high drift to his brother’s side.

 

Half-buried in the bloodstained snow, a huge dark shape slumped in death. Ice had formed in its shaggy grey fur, and the faint smell of corruption clung to it like a woman’s perfume. Bran glimpsed blind eyes crawling with maggots, a wide mouth full of yellowed teeth. But it was the size of it that made him gasp. It was bigger than his pony, twice the size of the largest hound in his Father’s kennel.

 

“It's no freak,” said Prince Jon calmly. “That's a direwolf. They grow larger than the other kind.”

 

“There's not been a direwolf sighted South of the Wall in two hundred years,” said Theon haughtily.

 

“I see one now,” Jon replied and Theon screwed up his face with dislike.

 

Bran tore his eyes away from the monster and looked at the bundle in Prince Jon’s arms. When he noticed what it was, he gave a cry of delight and moved closer. The pup was a tiny ball of grey-black fur, its eyes still closed. It nuzzled blindly against Prince Jon’s chest as he cradled it, searching for its Mother’s milk amongst the leathers and making a sad little whimpery sound.

 

“Go on,” Prince Jon told him kindly. “You can touch him.”

 

Bran gave the pup a quick, nervous stroke, then turned as Robb said, “Here you go.” His brother put a second pup into his arms. “There are five of them.” Bran sat down in the snow and hugged the wolf pup to his face. It's fur was soft and warm against his cheek.

 

“Direwolves loose in the Realm, after so many years,” muttered Hullen, the master of horse. “I like it not.”

 

“I believe it's a sign,” said King Rhaegar thoughtfully, looking at the direwolf pups with interest gleaming in his violet eyes.

 

Lord Eddard frowned. He seemed troubled. Snow crunched under his boots as he moved around the body, “Do we know what killed her?”

 

“There’s something in the throat,” said Robb proudly. “There, just under the jaw.”

 

His Father knelt and groped under the beast's head with his hand. He gave a yank and held it up for all to see. A foot of shattered antler, tines snapped off, all wet with blood.

 

A sudden silence descended over the party. King Rhaegar stared at the antler gravely and the other men dared not to speak. Even Bran could sense their fear, though he did not understand.

 

His Father tossed the antler to the side and cleansed his hands in the snow. “I'm surprised she lived long enough to whelp,” he said. His voice broke the silent spell.

 

“Maybe she didn't,” Jory said. “I've heard tales...maybe the bitch was already dead when the pups came.”

 

“Born with the dead,” said Ser Barristan. “There's no worse luck.”

 

“No matter,” said Hullen. “They be dead soon enough too.”

 

Bran gave a wordless cry of horror and dismay. 

 

“The sooner the better,” Theon agreed. He drew his sword. “Give the beast here, Bran.”

 

The little pup squirmed against him, as if it understood Theon’s words and actions. “ _ No! _ ” Bran cried out fiercely. “It's mine!”

 

“Put away your sword, Greyjoy,” Robb said. In that moment, he sounded like their Father, every bit the Lord he would one day be. “We will keep these pups.”

 

“You cannot do that, boy,” said Harwin, who was Hullen’s son.

 

“It'd be a mercy to kill them,” Hullen said. 

 

Bran looked to his Lord Father for rescue, but only got a frown and a furrowed brow, “Hullen speaks truly, son. Better a swift death than a hard one from cold and starvation.”

 

_ “No!”  _ He could feel tears welling in his eyes and he looked away. He did not want to cry in front of his Father.

 

Robb resisted stubbornly, “Ser Rodrik’s red bitch whelped again last week. It was a small litter, only two live pups. She’ll have milk enough.”

 

“She’ll rip them apart when they try to nurse.”

 

“Lord Stark,” said King Rhaegar suddenly, and the whole of the group fell silent. When the King spoke, you had best listen. Bran looked at him with desperate hope. “There are five pups,” he told Bran’s Father. “Three male, two female from what I can see.”

 

“Yes…”

 

“You have five trueborn children,” said the King. “Three sons, two daughters. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have these pups, my Lord.”

 

Bran saw his Father’s face change, saw the other men exchange glances. He loved the King with all his heart at that moment. It was true what they said about him: he had a good, kind, noble heart.

 

Robb broke through the silence that fell, “I will nurse mine myself, Father,” he promised. “I will soak a towel with warm milk, and give him suck from that.”

 

“Me too!” Bran echoed.

 

The Lord weighed his sons long and hard with his eyes. “Easy to say, and harder to do. I will not have you wasting the servants’ time with this. If you want these pups, you will feed them yourselves, understood?”

 

Bran nodded eagerly.

 

“You must train them as well,” their Father said. “ _ You  _ must train them. The kennel master will have nothing to do with these monsters, I promise you that. And you, Bran, must learn to train yours on the Kingsroad, can you handle that?”

 

Bran nodded again. He could do it, he knew he could.

 

“And the Gods help you if you if you neglect them, or brutalize them, or train them badly,” Lord Eddard continued. “These are not dogs to beg for treats and slink off at a kick. A direwolf will rip a man’s arm off his shoulder as easily as a dog will kill a rat. Are you sure you want this?”

 

“Yes, Father,” Bran said.

 

“Yes,” Robb agreed.

 

“The pups may die anyway, despite all you do.”

 

“They won't die,” Robb said. “We won't  _ let  _ them.”

 

“Keep them, then. Jory, Desmond, gather up the other pups. It's time we were back to Winterfell.”

 

Jon handed off the pup in his arms to Robb, who immediately took to him, squirming and sighing happily in his arms. Bran spied the fond look on Jon’s face before he quickly schooled it neutral.

 

It was not until they were mounted and on their way back that Bran allowed himself to taste the sweet air of victory. By then, his pup was snuggled inside his leather, warm against him, safe for the long ride home. Bran was wondering what to name him. 

 

Halfway across the bridge, Prince Jon pulled up suddenly.

 

“What is it, Jon?” His Father, the King, asked.

 

“Can't you hear it, Father?”

 

Bran could hear the wind in the trees, the clattering of their hooves on the ironwood planks, the whimpering of his hungry pup, but Prince Jon was listening to something else. 

 

“There,” he said, swinging his horse around and galloping back across the bridge. The party watched as he dismounted where the direwolf lay and knelt in the snow. A moment later, he was riding back to them, smiling. 

 

“He must have crawled away from the others,” he said.

 

“Or been driven away,” said Lord Eddard, looking at the sixth pup. His fur was white, where the rest of the litter was grey. His eyes were as red as the blood of the ragged man who had died that morning. Bran thought it curious that this pup alone would have opened his eyes while the others were still blind.

 

King Rhaegar was looking at the direwolf pup with an odd gleam to his eye, his face once again melancholy and thoughtful.

 

“An albino,” said Theon with wry amusement. “This one will die even faster than the others.”

 

Prince Jon gave Lord Stark’s Ward a long, chilling look, his violet, almost black eyes, like hard chipped ice. “I think not, Greyjoy,” he said. “This one belongs to me. After all, I  _ am  _ part Stark.”   
  



	8. ARYA I

**ARYA I**

 

Arya was becoming increasingly annoyed.

 

She was tasked, once again, by her Mother and Septa Mordane to re-fold and pack her large wooden chest. Her Mother had promised punishment if her clothes were not properly folded, the way she had taught her.

 

Arya’s new direwolf pup, whom she named Nymeria after the first Dornish Queen, watched her with newly opened eyes from her spot on the floor. Arya wished  _ she  _ could be a direwolf, then she wouldn't have to worry about folding her things.

 

She was just about to begin setting about folding a set of underclothes, when there was a knock at her door. 

 

Arya thought it was her Mother, and made to show that she was doing as she instructed and said, “Come in.”

 

It was not her Mother.

 

It was the  _ Queen _ .

 

She looked positively radiant in her light blue woolen dress with fur trim, in the style of the North. There were knotted blue roses across the neckline, the ones Arya and her sister wore, though Sansa’s and the Queen’s roses were much tidier than Arya’s. Her long, raven black hair was braided away from her face and her ice blue eyes appraised Arya with warmth. Arya spied one of the Kingsguard, Ser Barristan Selmy, standing to attention at the door behind her.

 

Arya swept into an awkward curtsy. “Your Grace,” she said, looking at her feet. Nymeria glanced up at the Queen with interest gleaming in her golden-yellow eyes.

 

Queen Lyanna laughed, a sweet, tinkling thing like the sound of little bells, her arms hidden behind her. “Please,” she said. “Call me Aunt Lyanna. No need for formalities here.”

 

Arya nodded, her face burning, “Yes, Your Gr— _ Aunt Lyanna _ .”

 

Aunt Lyanna smiled, her beautiful eyes crinkling. “I see you are packing your things,” she said.

 

Arya sighed, once again annoyed.

 

“Septa Mordane says my things weren't  _ properly  _ folded. Who cares how they are folded, they’re going to get all messed up anyway!”

 

Aunt Lyanna laughed, “Yes, I thought the same when I was a girl.” She leaned in and mocked whispered, “And between us girls, sometimes I still do!”

 

Arya giggled. She had always dreamed of meeting of her Aunt, she had fallen half in love with her when she was younger, hearing tales of her exploits from her Father. He always looked so happy and wistful when he told her those stories and now Arya knew why. Her Aunt was lovely and kind, and to Arya’s happiness, a lot like Arya herself.

 

“Are you excited to travel to King’s Landing?” Her Aunt asked after a moment, her arms still behind her back.

 

Arya nodded, “Yes.” Then she screwed up her face, “But I don't see why Sansa and Bran have to go.”

 

Aunt Lyanna laughed, “Well, Bran is coming to train to become a squire, and then one day a knight and your sister—” she paused, a look of worry flashing across her face. “—your sister is coming, well—” she looked around and leaned in once more. “What I'm about to tell you cannot leave this room, understood?”

 

Arya nodded excitedly, she loved secrets, and she could keep them well enough.

 

“Your sister is coming because she has been engaged to Joffrey Baratheon, Lord Baratheon’s second son,” whispered Lyanna. “She will be married to him in the Great Sept of Baelor, as soon as her moon’s blood comes.”

 

Arya screwed up her face at that. She hated the idea of marriage, she'd much rather be riding or practicing with swords and bows, something she knew her Aunt once empathized with. Arya thought the King must be something special to convince the she-wolf of Winterfell to marry him.

 

A thought passed Arya’s mind and she asked, “Why Lord Baratheon’s second son? Why wouldn't Sansa marry the first son?”

 

Lyanna smiled, “I hear his first son prefers his solitude and asked his Father for him to not be married until he is older and more capable of taking care of his wife.”

 

Arya nodded, “That makes sense.”

 

“I wish all men had that way of thinking,” said Lyanna, looking wistful. Even when she looked sad, Arya’s Aunt was probably the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, barring mayhaps her Mother. Lyanna shook her head, as if to chase away any unpleasant thoughts and smiled, “Enough talk of marriages and the like. I have a gift for you, little one.”

 

Arya lit up, her ice blue eyes that her Lord Father had once said reminded him so much of his sister were alight with curiosity. “A present?” She asked, completed interested in their subject change.

 

“Yes, sweet girl.” Lyanna finally brought her hands from back behind her back. She was holding a long, slender thing wrapped in leathers. She slowly unwrapped the leathers, to reveal a very skinny  _ sword _ , much like Arya herself.

 

“I had the blacksmith’s at the Red Keep make it special for you,” said Lyanna. “After I received word from your Father on your wishes to be trained in swordfighting. He told me how very much you remind him of me, and looking at you, I can see why.” She held out the sword to Arya, hilt first. “Now, be careful with this. It is no toy.”

 

Arya nodded seriously and slowly, hesitantly, wrapped her hand around the hilt of the blade. At Lyanna’s encouraging, she drew the sword from its skinny scabbard, the small metal glinting almost black in the torchlight.

 

“Is it Valyrian steel?” Arya had to ask.

 

“No, sweet girl,” said Lyanna. “I'm afraid not. Our Valyrian steel blacksmith was away to the Free Cities of Pentos when I had this made, or it would have been. But I think the metal that was used will do quite nicely, don't you think?”

 

Arya nodded again, barely able to form words as she held the sword in her hand.

 

“How does it feel in your hand?” asked Lyanna. “Does it have a good balance?”

 

Arya weighed the blade in her hand and said, “I think so.”

 

“Good,” Lyanna smiled. “First lesson: stick them with the pointy end.”

 

Arya giggled, “I know which end to use!”

 

Lyanna’s eyes crinkled, true warmth shining in them as she appraised Arya.

 

Arya paused, then asked, “Who will I practice with?”

 

Lyanna’s eyes glinted with what Arya perceived as mischief and she said, “I believe we will think of something. But until then, I want you to watch the boys in the training yard once we arrive in King’s Landing. Study their movements, and practice what you can, day and night, understood?”

 

“Yes, Aunt Lyanna,” said Arya. She suddenly had an overwhelming urge to hug her Aunt then, but was unsure of whether or not to proceed.

 

Her Aunt’s eyes did not miss a thing. She knelt to the floor, held out her arms, an open invitation and said, “Come here, sweetling.”

 

Arya moved to hug her, forgetting her sword was still in hand until Lyanna stopped her and gestured to the blade. Arya blushed and sat the sword, back in its scabbard, onto her bed, before rushing her Aunt Lyanna. 

 

Her skinny, little arms wrapped around her Aunt’s neck in a tight embrace, Lyanna’s arms coming around her to hug her fiercely. Arya could swear she could almost feel tears dampening her neck. 

 

Before they pulled away, Lyanna said, “All the best swords have names, you know. Jon’s is called Vhagar and my Rhaegar’s is called Fire. What shall you name yours?”

 

Arya thought for a moment, then said, “Sansa may have her sewing needles, but I have a Needle of my own.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yay! Arya has Needle! I thought it would be interesting if Lyanna gave it to her, since she doesn't know Jon very well yet...
> 
> Soon, I will be posting links to some aesthetic boards for this story on Pinterest, so look out for that!
> 
> And expect the next chapter on Sunday:)


	9. EDDARD II

**EDDARD II**

 

They had been riding for nearly a week, when the King decided it was time to set up camp at Moat Cailin, one of the North’s most important strongholds but most of it lay in ruins now. The King and his family were given The Gatehouse Tower, the only remaining Tower to retain some of its walls, as their seat for the night. The rest of the party was made to make camp outside the crumbling walls.

 

Night was beginning to fall as all around Lord Eddard Stark people were bustling about, getting their supper ready. Ned sat at table that had been set up for him and his family, a few candles set about it to cast them in a warm glow. He was picking at his dinner of roasted meats and baked bread, and a pitcher of summerwine, though he had barely touched it. His mind was somewhere else that night.

 

He was thinking back to when he left Cat and his sons, along with Prince Jon, at the gates of Winterfell. Cat had tried her best to put on a brave face for Ned, only her Tully blue eyes betraying her fear for him. They had stared at him so intently, that Ned himself had begun to feel afraid. He had tried to abate her fears the night before, saying how Lyanna and Rhaegar would never let any harm come to him or their children, but Cat wouldn't listen.

 

“I suppose they wouldn't have let any harm befall Jon Arryn,” she had said, her blue eyes filled with unshed tears. “And you see how well  _ that  _ turned out.”

 

Ned had said nothing, only rubbing his sword-hardened hand across the dark green wool that covered her back.

 

Thinking back onto Cat’s eyes, Ned felt that prick of fear stab his gut again and fought to push it down. There really was nothing he should be afraid of. He was a Stark of Winterfell after all. The only thing he need be afraid of was winter.

 

_ And winter is coming _ said a voice in the back of his head and the fear pricked again, harsher now.

 

He was pulled out of his reverie by his son, Bran, who was watching him with his Mother’s wide eyes. “Father?” He asked. “Are you alright? You've barely touched your food.”

 

Ned looked down at his plate and smiled reassuringly, “I'm fine, Bran. Just have some things on my mind, is all.”

 

Bran nodded seriously and turned back to feeding his direwolf pup, who he had still not named. All of Ned’s other children had named theirs: Robb’s was named Grey Wind, and Sansa’s was Lady. Arya’s was called Nymeria and Rickon’s was Shaggydog, the sweet lad. Even Prince Jon had named his,  _ Ghost  _ he was called, a very apt name indeed for the albino pup.

 

Bran was the only one left who hadn't named his. When Ned had asked his son why that was, Bran had only shrugged and said that names must be given a lot of thought, for you are stuck with it all your life. Ned had chuckled and agreed, letting his son do as he pleased.

 

“My lord?” A serving man came up to his table, bearing the sigil of the Targaryen House across his breast. “The King wishes to have a moment with you.”

 

Ned nodded and stood up, wondering just what was it the King needed of him at this hour of the night and followed the serving man, who carried a torch in hand across to the Gatehouse Tower. They picked their way through the swampy lands until they reached the ruins of the Tower. 

 

Inside was probably the largest tent Ned had seen in the encampment, with the Targaryen banners flying from posts outside the flap. The serving man spoke to one of the Kingsguard stationed at the entrance and he nodded his head and lead them inside. 

 

It was darker in the deep red tent than it had been outside, with many candles doing very little to light up the inside. They found King Rhaegar seated in a cushioned chair, staring intently at one of the flames in the candle. He was dressed in a dark red robe, his hand resting under his face as he contemplated the flame.

 

Ned looked around and spied his sister, asleep in the great bed, her arms curling protectively around her daughter Visenya. He did not see the other two royal children, though he suspected they were in the smaller tent next to the King’s.

 

Ned pulled the King out of his thoughts by saying, “You’ve summoned me, Your Grace?”

 

Rhaegar looked up, his violet eyes flashing in the candlelight. “Ah, Ned! Yes, thank you for coming.” He gestured to the chair opposite him, “Please, sit.”

 

Ned did as he said, settling down into the cushions whilst Rhaegar turned to the serving man, smiling slightly.

 

“Leave us,” he said, and the serving man bowed out, leaving Ned and Rhaegar the only ones awake in the tent.

 

The silence was awkward to say the least. To try and break it, Ned asked, “How is my sister?”

 

Rhaegar looked behind him at her sleeping form and smiled warmly. “Exhausted,” he said. “She's been up almost every night since we left, worrying about Jon.”

 

That sounded about right. Ned knew from his letters to his sister that she was fiercely protective of her children, as any wolf would be, and so Jon’s journey to the Wall must have made her nearly grey with worry.

 

“This is the first time they've parted?” Ned asked, although he already knew the answer.

 

“Aye,” said Rhaegar. “She loves him dearly. As do I, but I told her he'd be safe, after all, your son is with him.” At that, Rhaegar smirked a little and Ned didn't know what to make of it.

 

“But that isn't why I've summoned you here,” Rhaegar continued. “I have some things I wish to discuss with you.”

 

Ned inclined his head, indicating that Rhaegar go on.

 

“We will not be stopping by the Twins as we make our way further South,” said Rhaegar. “Lord Frey has extended the invitation, as he's wont to do, but frankly, I do not trust that man with my family, especially my daughters.”

 

_ Nor I  _ thought Ned, but instead he said, “A wise choice, Your Grace.”

 

Rhaegar sighed a little, but his smile was warm, “How many times must I ask you to please call me Rhaegar?”

 

“At least once more, Your Grace.”

 

Rhaegar smiled at that and continued on with his next point, “The Baratheons and the Lannisters and the Tyrells are all coming to King’s Landing within a fortnight of our arrival in the Capital. They will be coming for my sibling’s marriage and for my daughter’s.”

 

Ned nodded. He had known this information already.

 

“I'm going to need your help, Ned,” said Rhaegar suddenly and Ned startled a bit on the inside at that. “As you well know, Lord Baratheon holds no love for me, nor I for him. It's a miracle he came to my aid at all during the Greyjoy Rebellion and I think that was largely in part due to your sister’s influence.” 

 

Yes, Ned thought so as well. Robert was supposed to marry Lyanna, long ago, and he was deeply infatuated with her, but before that marriage could come to fruition, The Mad King had broken the arrangement and had him married to Cersei of House Lannister instead. Oh, how Robert had roared, of rebellions and the like, but Ned had settled him down as he did many times through the years of their friendship.

 

“I hate to say this, for I know that Lord Baratheon is a dear friend of yours, but I do not trust him near Lyanna,” said Rhaegar, looking grave. “He has never gotten over his affections for her and now he's known to be a raging drunk and I'm fearful of what might happen if I leave the two of them anywhere near each other. I know Lyanna would never break my trust, but it's not Lyanna I'm worried about. I need your help, Ned, in keeping him out of his cups and away from my wife, understood?”

 

Ned nodded his head. In truth, he would have done that anyway, for he knew how much Lyanna disliked Robert and his ways, ever since they were children. Ned had felt such rush of relief when Robert’s engagement to Lyanna was broken off, though he voiced no such opinion to Robert. Ned saw how happy Lyanna was Rhaegar and knew that would have never been the case had she married Robert.

 

Rhaegar smiled, obviously relieved at Ned’s acquiescence and said, “Good. Good. Thank you, Ned.”

 

Ned nodded, uncomfortable at seeing so much true emotion on the face of his King. It had seemed to Ned that Rhaegar had two faces: the one he showed to the public, and the one he showed to his close family and friends. Ned was beginning to realize that he was becoming more acquainted with Rhaegar’s true face: soft and melancholy, and very kind. 

 

Rhaegar spoke again after a moment of silence, “I’ll need your help with the Martells too. They've never forgiven me for naming Jon my heir after my father commanded it. Oberyn Martell would like nothing more than to drive a poisoned spear through my belly and the only thing that stops him is the love I bear Elia’s children, and them of me. I feel Oberyn may be more... _ genial _ to you, Ned.”

 

Ned nodded, agreeing. 

 

After a moment, Ned asked Rhaegar something that had been on his mind ever since he and Lyanna were down in the crypts at Winterfell. “Your Grace,” he said. “If I may, what happened to Jon Arryn?”

 

Rhaegar looked at him, his eyes tightening, “The maester said it was a fever sickness but, Gods be good Ned, I've never seen a fever sickness go through a man that fast before.”

 

“So you think he was murdered, then.” It wasn't a question.

 

“Aye,” said Rhaegar, “I do. But I don't know by whom or why. That's another reason why I need you there in the Capital, to help me find out who murdered him and bring them to justice.”

 

Ned nodded, “Of course, Your Grace. I'll never forget the day you asked Jon Arryn to be your Hand, when you had so many others to choose from.”

 

Rhaegar looked back at Lyanna, a fond smile on his face, “It was Lyanna who convinced me. She knew of Jon Arryn’s mind and spirit. After all, he helped raised you.”

 

“And Robert,” chuckled Ned a little.

 

“Aye,” laughed Rhaegar. “And Robert, but I forgave Jon Arryn for that. In truth, I thought having Jon Arryn as my Hand might settle some of the discord between me and Robert, but it helped little.”

 

“Robert’s a stubborn man,” Ned said hesitantly.

 

“That he is,” said Rhaegar.

 

There was movement heard on the bed and Rhaegar and Ned both froze, stilling their tongues. Lyanna blinked opened her eyes and gazed into the candlelight, seeing them across the tent.

 

“What are you two hens over there whispering about?” She yawned, teasing.

 

“About how safe Jon is, in the company of his cousin and your brother, and the Old Bear on the Wall, my love,” said Rhaegar, not entirely lying.

 

Lyanna nodded and shifted out of the bed, pulling on her light blue robe with a light fur trim, tying the sash in the front. “I suppose that's so,” she said, coming to place a hand on Rhaegar’s shoulder. “But he's my firstborn, so of course I shall worry about him.”

 

“I know, my love,” said Rhaegar, taking her hand and kissing the palm. They looked perfect together, Ned realized as he watched them in the candlelight.

 

_ No man could make her happier  _ he thought and it was the truth; Robert would have never been right for her.

 

Ned made to stand, saying, “If that's all, Your Grace, I wish to retire for the night.”

 

Rhaegar nodded his head and said, “Of course, Ned. We still have a long journey ahead of us. Romlyn will escort you back to your tent.”

 

Ned bowed to his King and Queen and took his leave, following Romlyn back to where his children were, all of them lay sleeping. As he walked, his thoughts brought before him an image of fire and ice, forever encircled, neither one truly abating the other, and an image of Lyanna and Rhaegar flitted through his mind.


	10. JON II

**JON II**

 

They had set out for the Wall not long after Jon’s parents and his siblings, along with Lord Stark and most of his children had left for King’s Landing. Jon had hugged his Mother fiercely before they left, letting her gather him up into her arms. He could feel her tears threatening to soak his black, sable cloak but he said nothing and only clung to her tighter.

 

“You be safe, you hear me?” His Mother had said when they pulled away. “No getting into trouble, the Wall is no place for that.”

 

Jon nodded, “Yes, Mother. I promise I won't.”

 

Lyanna had smiled, a little strained, and said, “Good. I expect you back in King’s Landing after four moon turns, understand?”

 

“Yes, Mother. Give my well wishes to Daenerys and Viserys on their wedding day.”

 

“I will.”

 

She had hugged him once more before being helped into her saddle on her trusty white horse, Snow, by his Father. Rhaegar came and clapped Jon on the shoulder, wishing him a good journey. He and his Father were always awkward about displays of affection, although they both knew they loved one another.

 

Jon watched them ride out of the large gates at Winterfell with an odd sense of foreboding in his stomach though he tried his best to ignore it. 

 

_ Nothing’s going to happen _ he told himself. He'd see his parents again soon.

 

Not long after they'd left, Jon, Robb, Uncle Benjen, another brother of the Night’s Watch named Yoren, and a flurry of guards and servants were mounting their own horses and riding out of Winterfell, through the north gate, out into the wolfswood on the kingsroad.

 

Jon was wrapped tightly in his Northern clothes, with his sable cloak strapped across his shoulders and his direwolf pup, Ghost, resting with his head popped out of the top of his doublet. Beside him, Robb and Grey Wind were doing the same. 

 

They had only had their direwolf pups for a little more than a week now, so they were still tiny and mostly helpless, relying on Jon and Robb to feed them and nurture them, which they did without complaint. 

 

Jon was quickly coming to love his direwolf. Ghost was his constant companion, always in his arms or down by his feet, never straying far. His red eyes always seemed to touch Jon in his soul when he looked at them, and for the first time Jon wondered if his eyes did the same. 

* * *

The North seemed to go on forever to Jon.

 

He knew his maps well enough, having personally studied the large, intricately carved table of Westeros on Dragonstone with his Aunt Dany and so he knew the North could be long and winding, but he didn't realize just how much until he was actually riding through it. 

 

It had been a fortnight since they had left Winterfell and they still weren't at the Wall, and it was getting colder and colder the closer they got, and a lot quieter too.

 

For the first three days of their ride North from Winterfell on the kingsroad, there was farmland to be had and nice inns to stay in for the night, but after those three days had passed, the farmland gave way to dense forest and the party was forced to sleep on the ground.

 

Jon didn't mind, in fact he thought that this was an awfully great adventure, as if he were some common man and not a Crown Prince, journeying to the Wall. He'd much prefer it if that were the truth, in any case.

 

When it was time to set up for the night, Robb would always lay his pack beside Jon’s so they could sleep next to each other, with their direwolf pups between them. They were greatly amused by the fact that Ghost and Grey Wind had taken a liking to one another, as close as the brothers that they were, settling in next to one another when the sky grew dark.

 

Jon and Robb would always stay up until the rest of the party was fast asleep, with the exception of whoever was on watch that night, but they always made sure to angle their packs in a way that the man who was on watch could not hear or see them kissing tenderly as they lay next to each other.

 

That night, Robb caressed his cheek softly with one hand while staring deeply into Jon’s dark violet eyes. He seemed lost in thought.

 

“What?” Jon whispered, feeling a little exposed with Robb staring at him like that. In his arms, Ghost moved to nuzzle his brother, who was fast asleep in Robb’s.

 

“I just—can't get past how  _ beautiful  _ you are,” said Robb, whispering back. “Or the fact that you are all  _ mine _ .”

 

Jon blushed and snarked, “Who said I was yours?” He loved the fact that he could be so comfortable around Robb, even though he'd only known him a short while, but it felt like it had been much longer than it had.

 

“You did,” Robb blinked, before grinning slowly at him. “The moment you let me kiss you before that heart tree. You know, in the North, that makes us almost as good as  _ married _ .”

 

Jon blushed fiercely and hid his face in his pack, the sudden movement startling Ghost a bit before he settled back down, licking at Jon's face. 

 

Robb laughed silently at him and stroked his hair, “Don't look so embarrassed, Targaryen. Would it be so awful to be married to me?”

 

“Yes,” Jon’s voice was muffled but he looked up to give Robb a warm smile to show that he was teasing.

 

Robb smiled and took Jon’s face in hand again, bringing their lips together sweetly. When they pulled apart, Robb breathed, “Gods, I want you.”

 

Jon flushed, “Me too.”

 

“Soon,” said Robb. “Once we’re at Castle Black. I'll sneak into your chambers one night and bolt the door, and make you mine.”

 

Jon smiled, his blush creeping down his neck, “I’d like that.”

 

“Aye. Me too.” He moved and brought their lips together again, this time slipping his tongue into Jon’s mouth and moaning softly as Jon rubbed his own tongue against Robb’s.

 

“I'm going to take you like one would take their wife,” whispered Robb. “Tenderly and full of passion. You are going to be begging me to pound you into the featherbed by the time I work you open.”

 

Jon gasped a little into his mouth, feeling his breeches harden with arousal. He wanted to feel Robb, every inch of him pressed up against his body. He wanted Robb to—to—

 

Jon willed that thought away and focused on kissing Robb, enjoying the here and now. They kissed and they kissed, their tongues tangling in a sweet dance, until Jon could barely keep his eyes open, and then they fell asleep, their bodies angled towards one another unconsciously and Robb's hand curled over Jon's underneath the furs.

 

In his sleep, Jon smiled.

 

He awoke with the dawn, grinning when he saw Robb still snoring softly in his pack, Grey Wind snuggled under his chin. Ghost stared up at Jon thoughtfully with his red eyes, and Jon pulled out a dark, woolen, brown rag that he kept on his person and a flagon filled with milk. He soaked the rag with the milk and fed Ghost, who sucked it up gratefully. Then, he fed him a little piece of dried meat, watching amused as Ghost cut his growing teeth on the hardened meat.

 

He heard the sound of someone stirring and both he and Ghost looked up to see Benjen moving to get out of his pack, fastening his black cloak around him. He moved to light the fire in the middle of the camp, beginning to start the morning’s goat stew for the others.

 

“Good morn, Uncle Benjen,” said Jon, startling him out of his reverie.

 

“Ah, good morn, Jon,” Benjen smiled warmly. “Would you like some stew?”

 

“Yes, thank you.” Jon got out of his own pack and wrapped his sable cloak back around his shoulders, picking up Ghost in his arms and going to sit across from Benjen at the fire. He stirred the stew over the fire with a contemplative look in his eyes.

 

“Did you sleep well last night, lad?” asked Uncle Benjen.

 

“Yes, Uncle,” said Jon, remembering the way Robb’s hand had curled around his in the night, how warm it had felt despite the frigid cold. 

 

Benjen looked over to Robb, still sound asleep, “Young Robb there never seems to leave your side, nor does his direwolf leaves yours.”

 

Jon flushed and said, “He feels like a brother to me.”

 

Benjen looked at him with his Mother’s eyes. “Aye,” he said slowly. 

 

Jon avoided gazing into his eyes, lest he see Jon’s real thoughts, and turned to Ghost in his lap, who was sitting silently, watching the trees. Ghost and Grey Wind had grown some since they were found by the bridge on the way back to Winterfell, but they still fit nicely in their owner’s laps. Jon didn't think it'd last that way much longer.

 

“Nice right pup you got there, Jon,” said Benjen after a moment. Jon was glad that he didn't call him Prince. There was no need, they were family. “He has your temperament.”

 

Jon looked at Ghost and Ghost looked at him, his red eyes searching. “Aye,” he said. “That he does.”

 

It was almost as if the Gods had made Ghost just for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooo....Jon x Robb sexy times coming up ;) I hope y'all enjoy it lol


	11. ROBB II

**ROBB II**

 

Jon was right, Robb had decided. The Wall _was_ the most impressive man-made structure in Westeros, standing at about seven hundred feet of solid ice, stone, and earth. Robb saw how awed Jon’s face was when they finally saw it after exiting The Gift after their long journey and he knew within his heart, that this trip was worth it just see that look on his beautiful face.

 

They were greeted cordially by the Lord Commander Mormont, the Old Bear, and Maester Aemon when they entered through the great wooden gates at Castle Black, their horses treading on the straw-covered ground.

 

When Jon dismounted his horse, everyone who was around immediately went to their knees, as a sign of respect. Robb could see the uncomfortable look on his face and made to dismount with him.

 

“Your Grace!” called Lord Commander Mormont from where he stood in front of the common hall, a raven sat upon his shoulder. “You honor us with your presence!” He was dressed all in black, as was custom of the men of the Night’s Watch.

 

Jon gave a respectful nod of his head. “Thank you, Lord Commander. It is _my_ honor to be here.”

 

“There has been no one of royal blood to step through these gates at Castle Black for almost a hundred years,” said the wizened Maester Aemon. “The stewards have been bustling about, making sure your rooms are in order, and young Robb Stark’s as well.”

 

Robb inclined his head, full of respect.

 

“I hope it was not too much trouble,” Jon blushed.

 

“Nonsense!” said Maester Aemon. “These boys need a little excitement now and again, it can get terribly cold and boring up here.”

 

“Why don't you come inside and have a nice drink of ale by the fire, Your Grace,” offered the Lord Commander. “I'm sure you must be freezing.”

 

“I’d be most pleased,” said Jon, inclining his head to show that he wanted Robb to follow.

 

Robb did, without hesitation.

 

They walked across the courtyard, their leather boots crunching on the straw that was scattered across the ground and followed the Lord Commander inside the common hall, with Uncle Benjen trailing behind.

 

They entered the dark common hall and were guided to sit by the hearth near the center. Robb was immediately basked in its warmth and instantly felt better from the bitter cold outside, though he didn't remove his cloak. A steward dressed all in black came by with five cups and a large pitcher of ale. Robb took his proffered cup of ale gratefully and began chugging it down.

 

Robb could see out of the corner of his eye that Jon was eyeing him amusedly, so he sent him a smirk, which caused Jon to blush all pretty.

 

Robb looked around the common hall. The walls were bare but once held the shields of knights who had come to take the the Black. The knight would put his shield on the wall and take up the black shield of the Night’s Watch, a symbolic gesture. Robb wondered where the shields went.

 

“So, Jon, what do you think of the Wall?” asked Uncle Benjen, taking a sip of his ale.

 

Jon turned his focus on him, which made Robb irrationally jealous, and said, “Oh, it's wonderful! I've never seen such beauty.”

 

“Not even in King’s Landing?” asked the Lord Commander.

 

“King’s Landing is nice,” said Jon, looking into his cup of ale. “The Red Keep is most impressive, but there's something about the Wall that just draws me in. Is it true it was forged with magic, to keep the Others out?”

 

The Lord Commander smiled at Jon and said, “I believe so.”

 

Robb could see that Jon was in utter awe. He wanted to put that look on his face while he fucked him into the featherbed. All pretty and pliant, and all _Robb's_.  

 

Jon had another question, “Lord Commander, how many men serve at Castle Black?”

 

The Lord Commander shared an uneasy look with Uncle Benjen. He hesitantly replied, “About six hundred, Your Grace.”

 

Jon gaped, “But—I thought that close to five _thousand_ had served at one point!”

 

Lord Commander Mormont sighed, “Yes, but that was hundreds of years ago. Nowadays, if given the choice, most men would rather prefer the knife.”

 

Jon frowned, “That won't do. I shall talk to my Father at once when I return to King’s Landing. There should be more men protecting the Wall.”

 

The Lord Commander smiled a little, “Yes, Your Grace.”

 

Robb decided to take advantage of the lull in conversation to gulp down his second refill of ale and stand up. “Thank you, Lord Commander, for your hospitality. I was wondering if I could be shown to my rooms? The road was long and I'm feeling a bit weary. I would like to rest my eyes for a bit.”

 

Lord Commander Mormont inclined his head, “Of course, milord. Heward will show you to your rooms.”

 

Jon seemed to take the hint that Robb was throwing his way and stood up also. “If it's alright with you, I would like the same.”

 

The Lord Commander waved his hand dismissively. “Of course, of course,” he said. “Heward! Show young Robb Stark and Prince Jon to their rooms.”

 

Heward the steward bowed humbly then motioned for Jon and Robb to follow him, their direwolves loping behind them. They walked across the east courtyard and up a flight of wooden steps until they reached the King’s Tower, reserved for royalty and honored guests. It was a rounded tower over a hundred feet tall with merlons on the top, overlooking the gate. The great entrance door was made of oak studded with iron which Heward heaved open.

 

He led them up a winding stone staircase until they reached two sets of doors across the hall from one another.

 

“This one is yours, milord,” said Howard, gesturing to the door closest to Robb. “And this one is yours, Your Grace.”

 

Jon smiled, “Thank you, Heward. You may tell my guards that I do not wish to be disturbed right now, and that I encourage them to mingle with the Night's Watch for awhile and enjoy their hospitality.”

 

Heward bowed humbly and said, “Yes, Your Grace.”

 

As soon as Heward was out of earshot, Jon did something that surprised Robb. He pushed him backwards up against the stone wall and began ravishing his mouth, kissing him intently. Robb let out a happy grunt before placing his hands on Jon's hips and kissing him back, with just as much purpose.

 

Jon pressed his leg in between Robb's and began rubbing it against Robb’s hardening member. Robb groaned into his mouth and began rutting his hips against the friction. Robb could feel Jon grin against his lips.

 

“You want to fuck me?” Jon gasped.

 

“ _Gods_ _yes_ ,” Robb moaned, moving his hands to grope at Jon’s glorious backside. The two mounds filled his hands perfectly.

 

“Well, come on then,” Jon grinned, pulling back and opening the latch on Robb’s door, going inside. Robb watched him go for a moment before shaking himself out of his reverie and following him inside. They left their direwolf pups outside the door for the time being, both of them feeling a bit awkward if they were in the same room as them.

 

Robb closed and locked the door behind him, before rounding on Jon who was lounging on the featherbed with a grin on his face. Robb thought that grin suited him.

 

A fire was crackling in the hearth, filling the whole room with a nice, pleasant warmth that soaked through the bones.

 

This would be the first time they had done this together. They had had two perfect weeks at Winterfell: Robb dragging Jon into dark corners of the castle and kissing the daylights out of him or Jon sneaking into his room at night where they would languidly kiss and grope at each other, but nothing more. This would be a first for both of them.

 

He crawled over on top of Jon, who curled his fingers into Robb’s curly auburn hair after taking his leather gloves off. Robb did the same, peeling his moleskin gloves off with his teeth, which startled a laugh out of Jon. He pressed his mouth to Jon’s again and licked his tongue inside, tangling with Jon’s, who moaned sweetly.

 

Robb branded his hands down Jon’s sides, feeling him up through his black leather and wool. He looked like one of the Night’s Watch with all his black, which Robb had wonder if that was intentional. Jon’s body felt wonderful beneath Robb’s hands, filled out in the nicest way possible.

 

Robb undid the straps to Jon’s sable cloak, letting it fall to the bed and pillow Jon’s inky black curls. He then pulled Jon up to sit with him on the bed, while Jon pulled off Robb’s own cloak, and Robb began working at the laces at the back of Jon’s doublet.

 

Once the black doublet was removed, Robb quickly discarded Jon’s undershirt and his own brown leather doublet and undershirt, leaving them both naked from the waist up.

 

Jon stared intently at Robb’s bare chest and Robb grinned. “Like what you see?” He asked.

 

Jon blushed and nodded, then he looked down at his own body. “Do you like what _you_ see?” He asked shyly.

 

Robb roamed his eyes down Jon’s bare chest: the refined the muscles, the little trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath his breeches. “Yes,” he said, breathing heavily with lust. “Yes, I do.”

 

He pushed Jon back down onto the bed and began sucking kisses along his throat, causing Jon to cry out and wriggle his body.

 

“Shhh,” Robb said teasingly. “You wouldn't want us to get caught, would you?” Jon shook his head and captured his pouty lower lip with his teeth. Robb stared at his lip a moment before saying, “You really haven't done this before, have you?”

 

Jon shook his head again and released his lower lip, “You were my first kiss—my first _everything_.”

 

Robb smiled; he liked the sound of that. “You weren't my first kiss,” said Robb. “But you are going to be my first time having sex.” He resumed his kisses along Jon’s neck, sucking a bruise into the juncture where his neck met his shoulder.

 

“Who— _ah_ —was your first kiss?” Jon panted heavily, rocking his hips against Robb’s leg.

 

Robb looked up. “Some whore named Ros. I didn't want to, but Theon made me. Said I needed to be a man.”

 

Jon huffed. “Ass,” he muttered.

 

Robb laughed. “Aye,” he said. “But he's my brother.”

 

Jon’s violet eyes glittered mischievously and he sat up, pushing Robb back onto the bed. Jon straddled him and his hands quickly untied Robb’s breeches, shucking them down as Robb toed off his leather boots, hearing them clatter to the floor. Robb’s cock sprang free, hard and leaking, and he hissed.

 

“Can your brother do _this_?” Jon asked before leaning down and taking Robb fully into his plush mouth.

 

Robb cursed loudly and his fingers found their way into Jon’s hair. “I thought you said I was your first,” he panted.

 

Jon pulled off of him and grinned, “You are, but Aegon has explained to me, _in detail_ , how one receives a blowjob.”

 

“Lucky man,” Robb muttered before shutting up again as Jon descended once more.

 

He was good at this.

 

 _Really_ good.

 

He mouthed at the underside of Robb’s cock, fondled his balls with one hand, swirled his tongue around the tip, bringing Robb closer and closer to the edge.

 

“Tell me when you’re close,” Jon said before taking him fully into his mouth again and sucking vigorously.

 

“I'm close!” Robb yelled. “I'm close!”

 

Jon grinned and pulled off, sitting up and undoing his own breeches. There was a visible bulge in them. He pulled down his breeches and exposed his beautiful cock. It was long and had good girth like Robb’s, and the tip was red from arousal. He shucked off his boots and pants and made to lay down on the bed again, Robb sitting up.

 

“How—how do we do this?” Jon asked after a moment, his face turning red again. How he could be so shameless one minute and a blushing virgin the next, Robb had no idea.

 

But he liked it.

 

A lot.

 

Robb got up from the bed and walked over to his trunk, pulling out a vial of oil. “I know from Theon that you need to open someone up, the way we are going to do it. So I got this,” he said, shaking the vial. “I promise not to hurt you.”

 

Jon smiled at him, “I trust you.”

 

And oh, if those words didn't make Robb’s heart soar!

 

“It might be best if you got on your stomach,” said Robb. “At least while I prepare you. I want to look at your face when I enter you.”

 

Jon blushed but did as he said, arching his back so that his ass presented in the air.

 

Robb groaned and knelt onto the bed, one of his hands stroking one of Jon’s meaty cheeks. “Your ass is the stuff of songs!” He praised.

 

Jon huffed a laugh and wiggled his butt a little. “Yeah, _The Young Wolf’s devotion to the Dragon Prince’s backside_. What a wonderful song that would make.”

 

Robb grinned. He loved the snark that would sometimes come out of Jon’s mouth. He took after his Mother in that aspect he suspected. Or perhaps it was the dragon simmering within.

 

He caressed his cheek a few more times before rubbing his hand over the other one, warming up the skin. After a few moments, he asked tenderly, “Are you ready?”

 

Jon nodded and buried his head into the pillow. “Do it,” he said, his voice muffled.

 

Robb needed no more instruction than that, pulling the cork off the vial and coating his index finger with the oil. He tentatively circled his slick finger around Jon’s puckered hole a few times, reveling in the soft sounds he was making. Then, without warning, he slowly pushed it inside, up to the second knuckle.

 

Jon gasped but didn't pull away, instead moving his ass further down until he took more of the finger. Robb slowly pumped the finger in and out, fucking him gently.

 

Once Jon got adjusted to the intrusion, he said, “Another!”

 

“You sure?” Robb asked. “I don't want to hurt you.”

 

“You won't,” said Jon, sounding sure.

 

Robb nodded and withdrew his finger, coating a second one in slick. He slowly eased them inside Jon’s hole, knowing that this time there would be a burn. Jon buried his face in his pillow again to muffle his moans.

 

Robb carefully moved his fingers inside Jon’s tight heat, curling them gently inside until they brushed up against something that had Jon suddenly jerking in the bed, his cock drooling onto the furs.

 

“Wh—what was _that_?!” Jon moaned, pushing his ass back so Robb could do it again.

 

“I don't know,” Robb answered honestly. “But I bet it's something that will make this as good for you as it will be for me.”

 

“Do it again,” Jon pleaded. “Touch me there again.”

 

Robb obliged, brushing his fingers against that sweet spot that sent Jon reeling. Robb’s cock was so hard now, watching the way Jon fell apart on his fingers. He could watch Jon like this all day. He scissored his fingers just so, stretching Jon out. He was so pliant under his hands, moaning and mewling like a kitten.

 

Robb was utterly entranced by Jon, everything he did sent his heart pounding in his chest, until he was sure Jon himself could hear it. Robb never wanted this to end, he never wanted to be apart from Jon. He—

 

 _No_ he thought firmly _Not now, not yet._

 

He focused on making Jon feel good, shaking away his thoughts and completely ignoring his own straining cock.

 

“One more,” Jon pleaded, his hands fisting into the furs. “One more finger, then you can fuck me.”

 

Robb withdrew his fingers once more and coated the last finger with liberal amounts of slick, knowing that this last one was going to hurt a lot, no matter how much Robb prepped him before hand. Robb leaned down and kissed Jon’s fluttering entrance, startling another moan out of him.

 

“What are you doing?!” Jon yelled incredulously.

 

“Making this _really_ good for you,” said Robb as he laved his tongue over the rim, probing it open.

 

Jon moaned once more and pushed his ass onto Robb’s face.

 

 _He must enjoy it_ Robb thought gleefully.

 

He snuck the three slick coated fingers into his entrance whilst he licked him open, easing the way a bit. Jon cried out and Robb paused, his fingers halfway inside.

 

“You alright?” He asked, concerned.

 

“I'm—I'm alright,” said Jon shakily. “Ke—keep going.”

 

Robb kissed his cheek before easing the fingers all the way inside, searching for that sweet spot again so Jon wouldn't have to be in any more pain. He found it quickly if Jon’s noises were any indication and he rubbed up against it ruthlessly, just to see how Jon sobbed all pretty like.

 

“Fuck me,” Jon said, whimpering as Robb stretched his hole. “Fuck me, please.”

 

Robb grinned and pulsated his fingers once more, making sure he was stretched enough, before removing his fingers and slapping Jon on the ass, delighting in the way it jiggled.

 

Jon yelped. “What was that for?!” He asked indignantly.

 

“Turn over,” Robb said, grinning wolfishly. He felt more animal than man in this moment, ready to take a bitch in heat.

 

Except Jon wasn't a bitch, he was Robb's _lover_.

 

Jon did as he said, turning onto his back on the featherbed and spreading his legs wantonly with a beautiful blush on his face. Robb grabbed his legs and pulled them over Robb’s thighs were he knelt, brushing his member against the cleft of Jon’s ass. Jon shuddered with pleasure.

 

“You ready?” Robb breathed, feeling as though he was about to burst from the buildup they had.

 

Jon nodded his head, as if he was unable to form words. Robb leaned over him and kissed him chastely on the mouth.

 

“I'll go slow,” he promised.

 

Then, he took his cock in hand and coated it with the oil, using a generous amount. He laced one of their hands together and rejoiced at how pleased Jon looked at the action.

 

He guided his cock to Jon’s stretched out rim. It wasn't quite as stretched out as it needed to be to take Robb’s cock, but he knew it wouldn't hurt Jon that much given the slick—or so he hoped.

 

With as much carefulness as he could muster, he slowly started to push in, both of them gasping at the sensation. Jon wrapped his free hand around Robb’s back like a vice, clawing at him as Robb pushed past the rim.

 

“ _Ah!_ ” Jon cried out and Robb paused.

 

“Should I stop?” He asked.

 

“Don't you dare!” Jon groaned and dug the heel of his foot into Robb’s backside, urging him further in.

 

Soon, Robb was in to the hilt inside Jon’s glorious heat and they stopped and just basked in it for a moment. Robb couldn't actually believe this was happening, that he was actually inside Jon, about to fuck him. It was like some kind of fever dream, hazy and hot, but oh so very real for the way Jon tightened around him.

 

Eventually, Jon ground out, “Move!”

 

Robb didn't need to be told twice. He pulled out, inch by inch, until just the head was inside him before shoving back in, rougher now, jerking a moan out of Jon.

 

“Again!” Jon demanded, sounding like a King.

 

Robb grinned. He liked demanding Jon.

 

“Yes, my Prince,” he said lovingly. “Anything you want.”

 

He pulled out again and pushed back in, a little bit faster. He continued to do this until he began to build up a rhythm, fucking him deeply into the featherbed.

 

Jon was a mess beneath him: his mouth open in a little “O” shape, his cheeks flame red and his curly black hair spread across the pillow like a maid’s. Robb loved it.

 

“ _Gods_ ,” Robb groaned, his hips pistoning faster. “You feel so good! So tight!”

 

“Glad I could please you, my Lord,” Jon teased, even as he was getting fucked out of his mind.

 

Robb grinned devilishly and sped up, hitting deeper. For the sounds that Jon suddenly made, his eyes screwing shut in pure pleasure, Robb must have found that sweet spot inside him. Robb made extra care to hit it with each thrust, until Jon was a sobbing mess.

 

He leaned down and captured Jon’s lips in a passionate kiss, Jon’s hand roaming up and down his back, grabbing for purchase as he fucked the daylights out of him. They fit together perfectly, a beautiful picture of pleasure and passion. They broke apart, panting from their arousal.

 

“ _Ah! Ah! Ah!_ ” Jon cried, grinding his hips to meet Robb’s. “I'm close! I'm close!”

 

“Me too,” Robb grunted, his thrusts starting to become more sloppy as the coil in his belly threatened to unravel.

 

“Oh Gods!” Jon cried, wrapping a hand over his drooling cock. He began jacking himself in fast strokes and before they knew it, he was coming with a loud cry that Robb muffled with a kiss and white spurts of cum splattered their chests.

 

At the sight of that and Jon clenching around him, Robb let go too, emptying himself deep inside him with a grunt. He could barely hold himself up, so he collapsed on top of Jon, their chests sticking together because of the cum.

 

“ _Ugh_ ,” Jon moaned, running a hand through Robb’s curls as he lay there panting on top of him. “Get off, you’re crushing me.”

 

Robb grinned, “Of course, my Prince.” He didn't miss Jon smacking him half-heartedly in the chest before he gingerly pulled out, delighting in the way Jon whimpered at the loss.

 

Robb fell on the bed beside Jon, their chests heaving. “That was…” he breathed.

 

“Sensational?” Jon offered.

 

“Yeah,” Robb propped his head up on his hand and looked at him. “Sensational.”

 

Jon closed his deep violet eyes and hummed, breathing deeply. Robb watched him as he lay there content. His heart clenched painfully at the beautiful sight of him, laying sated and pleased. He wanted to say something, he _needed_ to say something.

 

“Jon?” He asked softly.

 

Jon hummed, “Yes?”

 

“...I really like you.”

 

 _Idiot_ supplied a voice in Robb’s mind and he inwardly cursed.

 

Jon opened his eyes and cracked an amused smile. “I would hope so, Stark, otherwise I'd feel like a used whore after what we just did.”

 

Robb shoved him a little. “Alright, alright. No need to tease me, Targaryen,” he said.

 

Jon just smiled and closed his eyes again.

 

And for the umpteenth time that day, Robb thought he was beautiful.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp, there it is...i hope y'all liked it!!
> 
>  
> 
> thank you for all your lovely comments, y'all don't understand how much they mean to me! 
> 
> Also, here's my Pinterest link: https://www.pinterest.com/addisonmalvezzi/
> 
> Just copy and paste it into the search bar and it should come up! I have a few boards for this story, which y'all will know what they are by their names...some are still on private because they contain spoilers, but as soon as we are spoiler-free, i'll make them public!


	12. LYANNA II

**LYANNA II**

 

Lyanna broke her fast that morning alone in the King’s tent, save for the serving man, her sleeping daughter, and the Kingsguard stationed outside. She nibbled on a piece of bacon, but she did not feel very hungry. Her stomach had felt in dire straights ever since they came upon the Green Fork, and that was  _ five  _ days ago.

 

She thought mayhaps her stomach was giving her so much grief because of her worry for her son, but she was beginning to think better of it. She hoped with all her might that the trouble she was experiencing would be because she was with child again. She was expecting her moon’s blood in just a few days time, so by then, she would know.

 

“Have you heard word of my husband, the King?” She asked the serving boy, Romlyn, as he poured her another cup of water. Her stomach could not handle the summerwine.

 

“He went out riding, Your Grace,” said Romlyn, bowing respectfully. “With Lord Jon Connington. I believe he wanted to look around The Trident.”

 

Lyanna nodded, absorbing the information. Her husband was always exploring the land in which they ruled, he had told her once it was important for a King to know his lands and Lyanna had agreed. She was glad Jon Connington was with him, never mind the rumors that circulated about the exact measure of his love for the King. Jon would ensure that no harm befell her husband while they were out riding, Lyanna was sure.

 

Lyanna gulped down the rest of her water and moved to stand, wincing a little at the nausea that crashed over her. Romlyn helped her to her table, where her vanity items sat. She got to work brushing out her raven black hair, working it through with a brush Rhaegar had gifted her when they were courting.

 

It was a pretty little thing, silver like the sigil of her House, with rubies encrusted in the handle, the same as the ones beset in Rhaegar’s crown, but there was a secret in it too. If Lyanna pulled at the handle just right, a tiny dagger would pop out, no bigger than her index finger. Lyanna had been so surprised when Rhaegar had showed her the trick, thinking the brush to be an ordinary thing. 

 

She remembered how he had smiled his beautiful smile and said, “For when you need to take down more bullies.”

 

Lyanna had blushed fiercely and took the gift reverently. 

 

Lyanna smiled to herself fondly at the memory, though her eyes betrayed a hint of sadness. How simple things were for them then, no burden of the crown weighing heavily on Rhaegar’s head. 

 

She finished brushing out her hair and set about tying it back in a long braid down her back. After she was done with that, she sent for her handmaidens to come and help her dress. There was no way she could do it alone with the state her stomach was in. 

 

The handmaidens flitted in and pulled out a dress for her to wear, a lighter thing than what she wore in Winterfell, for they were in the South now, barely a fortnight away from King’s Landing. Her dress was beautiful, a light blue in color with an asymmetrical cut, made of the finest cloth, with intricately woven patterns along the neckline of direwolves and snowflakes. It was another gift to her from Rhaegar, and it came with a sword that she kept locked away in her trunk. Rhaegar had always liked to give her dual gifts, one for vanity and one for practicality. They both knew she liked the practical ones better, but she had come to adore the gowns and trinkets he gave her too.

 

Once Lyanna had finished slipping into her light slippers, she turned to Romlyn and said, “Send for my brother’s children. I would like to entertain them for awhile. And do we have any lemon cakes?”

 

“A few, Your Grace.”

 

“Bring them. I hear my niece, Sansa, likes them.”

 

“Yes, Your Grace,” Romlyn bowed out and went to go fetch the children.

 

Lyanna sat on her bed after dismissing her handmaidens and ran a hand through her daughter’s curls. All of this traveling had really tuckered her out and she was getting some much needed sleep.

 

At her Mother’s hands, Visenya began to stir. She blinked open her violet eyes and said sleepily, “Mama?”

 

“Yes, my darling girl,” Lyanna cooed, leaning down to kiss her on the forehead.

 

“Sleepy,” Visenya yawned, drowsily closing her eyes again.

 

“I know, sweet girl,” said Lyanna. “But don't you want to visit with your cousins?”

 

Visenya’s eyes popped open. She loved visiting with people, even when she herself couldn't fully talk yet. She sat up eagerly in the bed and Lyanna smiled. Lyanna scooped her up and sat down with her at the table in the tent, when Arya, Bran, and Sansa entered, Romlyn behind them with a serving girl carrying a plate of lemon cakes and a flagon of summerwine.

 

Sansa curtsied deeply. “Your Grace,” she said demurely, her eyes on the soft grass at her feet.

 

Arya and Bran followed her lead. Bran gave a sweeping bow and Arya curtsied awkwardly. “Your Grace,” they both said.

 

Lyanna laughed, “Please, call me Aunt Lyanna. We are family, there is no need for formalities here. Come, sit. I hear you like lemon cakes, Sansa.”

 

Sansa blushed a pretty pink, “Yes, Your Gr—I mean,  _ Aunt Lyanna _ .”

 

Lyanna gestured to the silver plate of lemon cakes in front of her, “Have as many as you like.”

 

Sansa smiled and sat down happily in the chair offered, taking a lemon cake and biting into it with a pleased look on her beautiful face.

 

Arya and Bran followed suit, sitting in the other chairs.

 

Lyanna looked around. “Where are your direwolves?” She asked. 

 

“Roaming around outside,” said Bran. “We thought maybe they'd scare Princess Visenya.”

 

Visenya pouted, “Not scared!” 

 

“Of course not, Princess,” said Sansa sweetly and Visenya smiled, bright and happy.

 

“Do let them come in,” Lyanna urged. “I’d love to stroke their fur, if that's alright with you.”

 

“Of course, Aunt Lyanna,” said Sansa.

 

Lyanna gestured to Romlyn, who looked sour faced at the suggestion of allowing direwolves near his Queen, but did as she said and opened the tent flap once more, allowing the three direwolves to walk inside.

 

Visenya giggled happily at the sight of them and clapped her hands with delight, saying, “Puppies! Puppies! Puppies!”

 

“They are not puppies,” said Arya, leaning down to stroke her Nymeria’s fur. “They are direwolves and they are fearsome creatures.”

 

“Not my Lady,” sniffed Sansa, feeding her direwolf a bit of lemon cake. “She's as delicate as a flower.”

 

Arya rolled her eyes and Lyanna stifled her laugh. Instead, she marveled at the size of the direwolf pups. “Gods, but they grow fast!”

 

That was true. They were almost nearly the size of Visenya when they stood up on hind legs, and the children had only them had them for almost two months. They were beautiful creatures, with yellow eyes that seemed to stare into one’s soul and grey and black fur that was soft to the touch. Lyanna leaned down and ran her hand across the back of Bran’s direwolf, whom he had still not named. 

 

“Are you excited to be in King’s Landing?” She asked the children.

 

Sansa nodded excitedly, her bright blue eyes filled with stars, “Oh, yes, Aunt Lyanna! I heard the Red Keep is quite the sight to behold!”

 

Lyanna laughed and nodded her head, “It is indeed. I believe you will flourish in the South, like your Lady Mother once did.”

 

Sansa gazed off with wistful look on her face, but quickly brought herself back down to reality. She gazed at Lyanna shyly and asked, “Aunt Lyanna? Is it true that I am to be betrothed to Lord Baratheon’s second son, Joffrey?”

 

Lyanna arched a brow at Arya, who stood her ground, “And where did you hear that?”

 

Sansa blushed again. “I overheard some of the servants whispering about it,” she said.

 

“Eavesdropping, no doubt,” scoffed Arya, who quickly gave a grunt of pain when Sansa swiftly kicked her under the table. Bran giggled into his hand and Visenya laughed openly.

 

Lyanna smiled at Sansa, “Do you want to be betrothed to him, sweetling?”

 

Sansa thought about it for a moment. “I heard he’s handsome,” she said. “With hair like spun gold and eyes as green as emeralds.”

 

“Aye,” said Lyanna. At least that was true. She feared there were no other attributes of Joffrey that made him desirable, his Mother spoiled him too much, unlike her firstborn, whom she almost completely ignored in favor of her blonde children. Lyanna detested the woman and the eyes she made at her husband.

 

“Is that all you care about?” asked Arya, angry. “Whether or not he’s handsome? What if he was as ugly as a donkey, would you still want to marry him then?”

 

Sansa was taken aback. “Arya!” She gasped. She looked embarrassed to be yelled at by her sister in front of Lyanna, but Lyanna only laughed.

 

“I’m sure your sister thinks about his other attributes as well,” said Lyanna. “Like whether or not he’s a good man and treats his household and his wife with kindness.” Lyanna knew that with Joffrey, there would be none of that. She planned on having a talk with her brother, to try and convince him to stop this folly before it was too late and Sansa wound up hurt. 

 

Sansa nodded at Lyanna, agreeing with her words.

 

There was movement at the outside of the tent and Rhaegar came waltzing inside, his silvery hair flowing behind him. Lyanna swore she could see Sansa swoon and smiled to herself.

 

“Papa!” Visenya yelled, holding out her arms for her Father to take the hint and pick her up. He did, without hesitation.

 

“Oh! How’s my beautiful girl?” He asked, swinging her up into the air after giving Lyanna a peck on the lips, which she savoured like a sweet.

 

“Good,” Visenya giggled, wrapping her little arms about her Father’s neck.

 

“That’s good,” said Rhaegar. It was then he noticed the other people in the room. He smiled graciously and said, “How are you today, lovely nieces and nephew?”

 

Sansa blushed at having been addressed by Rhaegar and said shyly, “Good, Your Grace.”

 

Rhaegar smiled politely at her, “I’m glad. Where is your Father, I’d love to speak with him.”

 

“He’s attending to the horses with Jory,” said Arya, eyeing the King.

 

“Ah,” said Rhaegar. 

 

Silence fell, not awkward in the slightest until Lyanna asked, “How was your ride this morn, my love?”

 

“Good,” said Rhaegar. “Me and Jon explored along The Trident, but we did not venture very far lest Arthur suffer from a heart attack.”

 

Lyanna giggled and Rhaegar smiled warmly at her.

 

“Will we be staying at Harrenhal?” asked Arya suddenly.

 

Lyanna sobered at that. In truth, Harrenhal served as both good memories and bad for Lyanna. It was there where she met Rhaegar and fell in love, but it was also the place where her eldest brother, Brandon, went missing and turned up dead in the God’s Eye two weeks later. Oh, how Lyanna had wept. Brandon, The Wild Wolf, they called him, was one of her closest friends. He always had a kind word for his sister and he could always make her laugh. Lyanna missed him terribly. 

 

Rhaegar noticed the look on her face and said, “No. We are staying further down along the Kingsroad.”

 

Lyanna gave him a grateful smile but Sansa didn’t understand.

 

“But--that’s where you two met and fell in love! Don’t you want to visit the birthplace of your love?”

 

“Seven Hells!” Arya exclaimed, disgusted by Sansa’s nature.

 

“Don’t worry, little lady,” Rhaegar winked. “We will be stopping by there so I can give my Queen a present.”

 

Lyanna smirked. She knew what that present would be. He was going to fuck her on the outskirts of the ruins of the castle, like they did whenever they visited Harrenhal, which was few and far between. That activity was one of the only reasons why Lyanna liked to go there, that and as Sansa said, it  _ was _ the birthplace of their love.

 

“Now, if you children would excuse us, I’d like a moment alone with my wife,” said Rhaegar. He handed Visenya off to Romlyn, saying, “Take her to her sister, I’m sure my little Visenya would like to see Rhaenys.”

 

Visenya giggled, “I love Rhaenys!”

 

“As do I.”

 

Romlyn bowed and carried Visenya off, while Sansa and her siblings stood, giving them a bow and curtsey of courtesy before taking their leave, their direwolves trailing behind them. After they left, Rhaegar came up to Lyanna and leaned down to kiss her exposed neck.

 

“Did you see how large those wolves had grown?” He asked, murmuring against her skin.

 

“Aye,” laughed Lyanna. “They will become fearsome beasts.”

 

“If Jon’s direwolf even grows half the size that theirs will become, I’m sure he will be under great protection on the Wall,” said Rhaegar, moving his hands down her front and caressing her breasts under the fabric.

 

Lyanna shifted in her seat and turned to face him, “Let us not talk of Jon, my love. For I fear my worry of him may sour the mood.”

 

Rhaegar acquiesced and kissed her fully on the mouth, easing her up from the chair. “How’s your stomach, my love?” He whispered as he pulled her to the bed.

 

Lyanna placed a hand on her belly. “Not as bad, now,” she said and that was the truth. She always felt better when her Rhaegar was in the room.

 

Rhaegar sat down on the featherbed and pulled Lyanna on top of him, who straddled his thighs. They kissed deeply, passionately, their tongues battling sweetly in the heat. Rhaegar’s hands molded over her breasts and went to undo the string that held her dress together.

 

“Mayhaps it’s our child,” whispered Rhaegar against her mouth. “Growing strong in your belly.”

 

Lyanna laughed, “The Tyrell words, are they not, husband?”

 

“And they are very apt,” said Rhaegar, pulling the string undone. “For no child of yours could ever be weak.”

 

“No child of  _ ours _ ,” Lyanna corrected, sitting back so that when her dress fell open, her body was on display. 

 

Rhaegar groaned at the sight and delved to put his mouth on her breast, laving over the sensitive bud. 

 

Lyanna gasped as Rhaegar suckled on her breast, the bud hardening with arousal at the ministrations. 

 

“Careful, my love,” she breathed. “I'm very sensitive.”

 

“Do you believe you are with child?” Rhaegar asked, looking up from her breasts.

 

“We won't know for sure for a few more days still, but yes, I think so,” Lyanna smiled at the way Rhaegar lit up and pushed aside her dress completely, so that the dark curls between her thighs were visible.

 

Lyanna let the gown fall to the grass, leaving her completely naked as she toed off her slippers. She pushed Rhaegar on his back and crawled on top of him, undoing his belt and untying his black jerkin with the Targaryen symbol emblazoned across the front, removing it to reveal the red underneath. 

 

She had him raise up his arms so she could remove the undershirt, revealing the smooth muscle and pale skin. She leaned down and sucked kisses down his neck, licking into his clavicle and causing him to moan, before capturing a nipple in her mouth. She swirled her tongue around the raised bud, then nipped at it, jerking Rhaegar. Lyanna smirked and sat up, reveling in the sounds she made him make.

 

Her hands reached down and cupped Rhaegar through his dark breeches, his long length hard in her hands. Rhaegar hissed and lifted his hips to meet her hand. She undid the ties holding his breeches up, then teasingly trailed her hand underneath the loosened fabric to grasp at his manhood.

 

Rhaegar gasped as she slowly stroked him. “You are a  _ tease! _ ” He groaned, tipping his head back amongst the pillows.

 

“And  _ you _ are still  _ much  _ too clothed,” Lyanna said, grinning as she shucked his breeches down. His cock sprang free, leaking a bit at the tip.

 

Lyanna kissed down his chest, moving further and further down until she was eyelevel with his cock. Without warning, she wrapped her lips around him, causing Rhaegar to cry out with pleasure and buck his hips. 

 

Lyanna loved the way she could make the melancholy King, her Rhaegar, fall apart under her mouth. She sucked him deep, taking him down until he hit the back of her throat, causing her to gag a little, but she didn't pull off. She reached a hand between her thighs and stroked her clit, making her shake with pleasure.

 

“Lyanna,” panted Rhaegar. “Sweet, wild Lyanna, let me be inside you.  _ Please _ !”

 

Only Lyanna could make the King beg like that and she delighted in that knowledge. She pulled off Rhaegar's cock with a pop and straddled him once more, bracing her hands on his shoulders. His hands immediately went to her hips, guiding her onto his cock.

 

She teased her dripping folds over the head of his cock a few moments before she decided to take pity on him and sunk down, causing them both to moan. Rhaegar sat up and his hands found themselves in Lyanna’s braid, loosening it from the strap of leather that bound it together.

 

“I just braided that!” She breathed into his mouth as she rocked her hips to meet his.

 

“You know I like your hair loose,” replied Rhaegar, bucking his hips upwards, the curve of it hitting that sweet spot inside her.

 

Lyanna moaned and wrapped her arms about his neck, pulling him in for another kiss. They moved together as one, rocking into one another with the same passion they held for each other all these years. It had never died, just like their love.

 

“I love you, my King,” Lyanna said, feeling tears prick her eyes as she was overcome with emotion for this man in front of her. He was her sweet, sad song. Her beautiful dragon. Her grand King.

 

Her Rhaegar.

 

And she was his. She swore it, before all the lords and ladies of the court, before her brother, before the Mad King himself even, in the Great Sept of Baelor, and she meant it. She meant it with every beat of her heart, with every strum of her soul.

 

_ I am his, and he is mine, from this day until my last day _

 

“I love you too, my Queen,” Rhaegar kissed her fiercely. She could feel all the love he had for her put behind his kiss and it was glorious. It made her heart sing!

 

She bounced faster on his cock, riding him until they both reached their completion, crying out in sync as Rhaegar spilled his seed inside her. They fell back onto the bed, panting heavily. Lyanna buried her face into his neck, breathing in his scent. He smelled of leather, and pinewood, and old dusty tomes. 

 

He smelled like  _ home _ .

 

After a while, Lyanna spoke, “My dear Rhaegar. Would you play your harp for me?”

 

Rhaegar smiled and kissed the crown of her head, “Of course, my love.”

 

He stood from the bed and pulled on his deep red robe, before walking over to his chest and pulling out his beautiful harp. It was made of a dark, black metal that glistened in the sunlight. He sat down next to her on the bed, where she lay curled up and naked, and began to play.

 

The melody that flowed out of his fingertips like water trickling out of stream, was that of the one he played during the Tourney at Harrenhal and once more, Lyanna’s eyes began to fill with tears.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Moar smut! And the direwolves are growing bigger! I'd like to think they grow faster than the average animal because they are imbued with magic, although the process is a bit slowed because they are south of the Wall.


	13. SANSA I

**SANSA I**

 

They arrived in King’s Landing with much fanfare.

 

Sansa could hear the cries of the common folk as the King rode in through the Dragon Gate, with his Queen behind him, seated on the outside of the wheelhouse which held the royal children, barring Prince Jon. Sansa had heard whispers amongst the servants as they had neared King’s Landing that the Queen was with child again and that's why she was not riding. Sansa hoped it was true. Lyanna and Rhaegar waved gracefully to the people as they came upon Rhaenys’ Hill and Sansa swooned.

 

_ How majestic they are _ she thought.  _ The stuff of songs! _

 

The people cheered as they passed through the gate, yelling good fortune to their wise and prosperous King and his Queen. They even yelled for Sansa’s Father, Lord Eddard, once they saw him ride in upon his great warhorse. They all waved miniature flags of House Targaryen and House Stark, a sea of red, black, and silver.

 

The King’s party took the cobbled streets to the left and came upon Rosby road, which took them down by the streets of Flea Bottom. The stench nearly made Sansa want to gag, but she held it in like a good little lady. 

 

They rode Rosby road all the way until they came upon a building made of black marble.

 

“The Guildhall of the Alchemists,” Septa Mordane whispered in Sansa’s ear. 

 

Sansa gave Lady, who was lying demurely next to her in the carriage, a nice stroke down her back as she gazed out the window and onto the streets. 

 

They took another left at the Guildhall and rode the road all the way to the west of King’s Landing, until they arrived at the Red Keep, a massive, sprawling castle made of pale red stone. 

 

They passed under the curtain wall and through a bronze gate. Once they entered through the gate, the party split into two: one for the royal family, who rode towards the center of the Red Keep, towards Maegor’s holdfast, and Sansa’s family, who rode towards the Tower of the Hand where she and her family would be staying. 

 

They went through the outer yard, passed the Small Hall and under a portcullis, coming by beside the great Tower of the Hand. 

 

Sansa's Father himself helped his children out of their wooden carriage, and walked with them up the stairs into the Tower. They wound up the pale, red stone spiral staircase, until they reached the dining hall and hallways which led to their various chambers. 

 

Sansa watched as Arya flitted through the hallways, searching for a room to claim as hers, Nymeria on her heels.

 

“I want this one!” She claimed, pointing to a door of oak banded with iron. “It's the biggest out of the three!”

 

_ That's not fair!  _ Sansa wanted to shout, but she held her tongue. She didn't want to upset Father, who seemed weary after the long journey. 

 

Sansa swished her pale blue dress of wool and sniffed, “It doesn't matter whether or not if it's the biggest one.”

 

Arya saw right through her, “You’re just mad because you didn't claim it first!” She crossed her arms and stared haughtily at her.

 

Sansa blushed as red as her hair. “Am not!” She said.

 

“Are too!”

 

“Am no—”

 

“Girls,” said Lord Eddard Stark wearily. “Come now, it’s been a long journey and your Father is tired. Can you stop this foolishness? It's just a room.”

 

Sansa and Arya stilled their tongues. They both respected and loved their Father a great deal, and loathed to make him upset. His face was sad and solemn as it was. 

 

“Forgive me, Father,” said Sansa, looking at her slippered feet.

 

“Yes, Father,” said Arya. “Forgive me.”

 

Ned smiled, a little wan, but it was warm for his daughters, “It's alright. I'll have the servers bring us some food and we can enjoy a nice meal together before I go and rest. Your Father is not as young as he once was.” He chuckled a little at that.

 

“Food sounds wonderful,” said Bran, who hadn't said anything once Arya and Sansa started fighting. “I'm starved!”

 

“You’re always hungry,” sighed Arya, rolling her eyes.

 

“Am not!”

 

“Are too!”

 

“Am not!”

 

Ned sighed and put his head in his hands. Sansa came and sat by him, putting her hand on top of his arm. Lady came and sat by her feet.

 

“Is everything alright, Father?” She asked over the arguing voices of her siblings.

 

Ned looked up from his hands, his face looking like he'd aged five years, and said, “It’s nothing to worry your head over. I'm fine.”

 

Sansa was not convinced. “Is it about the Queen?” She asked.

 

“I'm sure my sister is fine,” said Ned. 

 

“Is it true she's with child again?” Sansa asked.

 

Ned smiled. “Mayhaps,” he said, his eyes twinkling a bit. “We’ll find out in the next few days or so.”

 

Sansa sighed dreamily and said, “I hope it's true! To have another royal baby would be wonderful!” Sansa dreamed of the day that she would have children of her own, little blonde haired beauties for Joffrey.

 

“Aye,” said Ned. A couple of servants dressed in the Targaryen black and red came and served them their luncheon. 

 

Their meal consisted of honeyed duck, roasted onions dripping with gravy, pastries of all sorts, pomegranates, and spiced beer and water to wash it down. 

 

Bran attacked his meal with a zeal only found in ten year olds, while Sansa ate hers daintily with the grace of a lady. She cut up her portion of duck into small pieces, spearing them with her silver fork and chewing politely. She sipped at her water and made sure to wipe her mouth after every couple of bites, so that she didn't look messy and unladylike.

 

Arya finished her meal quickly and gulped down her water in two big swallows. She turned to their Father and said, “I want to go exploring around the castle. Can I?”

 

Ned considered this a moment. “Alright,” he said. “As long as you take your sister with you, I wouldn't want you to be running around here alone.”

 

Arya tried to protest, but Ned held up his hand to silence her. “Either your sister goes with you or you don't go at all, understood?”

 

Arya looked down at her clean plate. “Yes, Father,” she said. 

 

“Septa Mordane?” Ned addressed their septa who had been eating her meal quietly next to Sansa. “Go with them to make sure they don't get into trouble.”

 

Septa Mordane bowed her head humbly. “Of course, my Lord,” she said.

 

“Well, come then!” said Arya, pushing away from the table and getting to her feet. Her dark blue woolen dress swished as she stood. “Let's go!”

 

They wound down the spiral staircase of the Tower, coming out the great oak door and down another set of stairs until they were out in the middle bailey. 

 

“What would you like to see first, little lady?” Septa Mordane asked Arya once they were out of the Tower.

 

Arya twisted her face in thought. “I want to see…” she paused for a moment then lit up, “the Iron Throne!”

 

“Very well,” Septa Mordane inclined her head and they made their way back to the left, under the portcullis in which they came through when they arrived. The guards stationed there gave them a bow of respect as they walked through.

 

They came out into the outer yard and walked around the Small Hall, until they came upon the doors of the Throne Room. Sansa felt her belly twitch with nervous excitement at seeing the Iron Throne. She wondered if it was as impressive as the rumors said.

 

There were two guards, dressed in the Targaryen colors and bearing the sigil on their breast, manning the oaken doors. They inclined their heads with respect to the Stark girls and their Septa before pushing open the doors and letting the light from outside filter through, their shadows casting long down the Hall.

 

Arya ran through the doors, ignoring Septa Mordane’s protests, while Sansa walked slowly inside, her stomach churning as she glanced upon the Iron Throne for the first time.

 

Even from all the way down the opposite end of the Hall, Sansa could see just how impressive and monstrous it was. It was huge and asymmetrical, made of a thousand swords all melded together. Sansa could see there were jagged edges and she had to wonder why anyone would choose to sit on something so dangerous.

 

“Sansa,” said Septa Mordane as they walked closer to the Throne, Arya way ahead of them. The high, narrow windows set in the eastern and western walls gave good light as they walked. The walls were no longer decorated with dragon skulls, for King Rhaegar had them put away once he came into power. Now, the walls were decorated with banners bearing the sigils of House Stark and House Targaryen. “Who built the Iron Throne?” Septa Mordane asked.

 

“Aegon the First,” said Sansa, remembering her lessons clearly.

 

“And Balerion the Black Dread!” called Arya from the other side of the Hall, where she stood gazing in awe at the Throne before her. “Aegon melded the swords together with dragonfire!”

 

Septa Mordane nodded her covered head, then turned to Sansa again. “And who was the second Targaryen king to sit upon the Iron Throne?” She asked.

 

“Aenys the First,” said Sansa. “Then came Maegor the Cruel, who built the holdfast where the King and his royal family stay.”

 

Septa Mordane’s thin lips twitched at Sansa calling Maegor the First by his nickname but she didn't correct her. Instead she asked, “And who was the last Targaryen king to sit the Iron Throne, before King Rhaegar?”

 

“The Mad King Aery—” Sansa was cut off by Septa Mordane.

 

“ _ Commonly known  _ as the Mad King,” she sighed.

 

“It's alright, Septa,” said a beautiful voice behind them and they all whirled around to see who was speaking. It was the King! “She can call him by his true name,” he said, winking at Sansa which caused her blush. “He  _ was  _ mad, after all.”

 

King Rhaegar was the most handsome man Sansa had ever laid eyes upon. With his high cheekbones and flowing silver-white hair, and his beautiful violet eyes that shimmered when he looked at you. 

 

Septa Mordane swept into a curtsy, which Sansa and Arya were quick to follow, their skirts swishing as they swept low.

 

“My King,” said Sansa shyly, looking down at the ground. She felt her face betray her emotions, blushing as red as the hair on her head.

 

Rhaegar smiled, clearly amused, and gave his own deep bow. “My ladies,” he said charmingly. He glanced up at the Throne, “I see you are looking at the Throne. What do you think?”

 

Sansa opened her mouth to speak but Arya beat her to it. 

 

“I think it's amazing!” She said, enthused. Then she paused and asked, “But doesn't it hurt, to sit on all those jagged edges?”

 

Rhaegar smiled. “Aegon the First was of the belief that a King should never sit comfortably, and I agree with him. But I must say, it's not so bad.”

 

_ Unlike The Mad King _ thought Sansa  _ who was called the Scab King for how many times the Throne would cut him. He was not worthy, but his son is. _

 

“Now, if you ladies would excuse me, I have called together a Small Council meeting and must arrive posthaste. I wouldn't want your Father to think I'm an absentee King,” Rhaegar winked again and Sansa could feel herself swoon.

 

She found her voice quickly and said, “Father would never think that about you. He thinks you are a good King.”

 

Rhaegar smiled. “I'm glad to hear it. Ladies,” he gave a final bow then walked out the doors of the Great Hall, his silver hair flowing behind him like a white sail on the open ocean.

 

Once he was gone, Sansa turned to Septa Mordane with stars in her eyes. “Isn't he wonderful?” She asked, her voice all light and dreamy.

 

She missed the way Arya rolled her eyes and turned back to the Throne. After a minute she said, “Come on, let's go! I want to see the dragon skulls!” 

 

Sansa startled when Arya grabbed her hand and began pulling it towards the back of the Throne room, but she didn't stop her. Even though she wouldn't admit to herself, sometimes it was nice to see Arya so enthusiastic about something other swordfighting. She let her pull her away, Septa Mordane trailing behind them, and they went back out into the sunlight, to the beautiful, lush gardens that lay beyond the Great Hall.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	14. EDDARD III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Over 200 kudos?! Thank you guys so so much! It makes me so happy to know that people are enjoying reading this as much as I am writing this! Just know, there’s lots more to come;)

**EDDARD III**

 

Eddard Stark was abed in his chambers, his stomach full of honeyed duck, and dreaming of a nice soak he planned to have that night, when a steward knocked on the door.

 

“Come in,” he said, gruffly. He wished he could tell them to go away, but it may be something important.

 

The steward slipped through the oaken door and bowed very low, saying, “The King requests your presence at a Small Council meeting.”

 

_ Already?  _ Ned wanted to ask but he held his tongue. 

 

He sat up in the bed gingerly, his body very sore from all the riding they had been doing and said, “Alright. Tell the King I'm on my way, I just need to change in some suitable clothes.”

 

“Yes, my Lord,” the steward bowed very low again and slipped back out.

 

A few moments later, after Ned had rid himself of his dusty riding leathers and changed into some more clean clothes, he strode out of the Tower and through the portcullis, across the outer yard and into the Small Council meeting chambers.

 

The chamber was furnished richly, with Myrish carpets covering the floor and a hundred fabulously carved beasts in one corner of the room, with bright paints adorning them on a carved screen from the Summer Isles. On the walls were tapestries from Norvos, Qohor, and Lys, with a pair of Valyrian sphinxes by the door.

 

Immediately upon entering, Ned was accosted by the eunuch Varys, whom out of all the councillors, he liked the least. Varys was the Master of Whisperers, charged with having intelligence of all the goings on in the Realm, including across the Narrow Sea.

 

“My Lord Stark,” tittered the eunuch, his bald head practically glowing in the low lit room. “I am most pleased that you agreed to become King Rhaegar’s Hand and made the long journey South.”

 

“Thank you, Lord Varys,” said Ned, untangling himself from the eunuch. 

 

He nodded to Lord Jon Connington, who, after serving as Hand himself, was given a position on the Small Council as Master of Laws. Connington used to be a very arrogant and prickly man, but the years seemed to have changed him, but not his love for the King.

 

“Ah, Lord Stark,” said a man, standing up from his chair. “It's so nice to finally meet you in person. I take it  _ Cat _ has mentioned me, once or twice?” The man’s pointed beard twitched as he smirked.

 

“She has, Lord Baelish,” said Ned. “I take it you knew my brother, Brandon, as well.”

 

Lord Baelish’s face twisted a bit unpleasantly before he smiled again. “I did, Lord Stark. I carry a token of his esteem from navel to collarbone.”

 

“Perhaps you chose the wrong man to duel with,” Ned couldn't help but say.

 

“It wasn't the  _ man _ I chose, my Lord. It was  _ Catelyn Tully _ . A woman worth fighting for, I'm sure you’ll agree.” Ned didn't like the smirk that was placed on Littlefinger’s face.

 

“Alright, that's enough,” said the King, who had been sitting quietly, watching Ned speak with the council members. “Let Lord Stark take his seat so we can begin.”

 

Ned gave a nod to the King and Grand Maester Pycelle on his right, who was a very old man with a long white beard and very few white hairs on his head. On the other side of the table sat the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Arthur Dayne. He was out of uniform, but still dressed in white, his jerkin gleaming brilliantly.

 

Ned sat down next to the King in a chair of black upholstery, with the red three-headed dragon of the Targaryen symbol printed in the middle. 

 

The King steepled his long, white fingers together and said, “First order of business: the Tourney, for my newly appointed Hand.”

 

Ned startled. “A tourney, Your Grace? I can assure you that I have no need for that,” he said.

 

“You might not,” said Lord Connington, “but the Realm might. We haven't hosted a proper tourney in King’s Landing in years.”

 

“I believe it's a good idea, Lord Stark,” said the King, his violet eyes staring into the very recesses of Ned’s soul. “All the families coming for my siblings wedding and the wedding of Jaime Lannister to my daughter, Rhaenys, will be there. It would be a great opportunity to foster peace within the families.”

 

Ned gave a jerky nod. The King was right, after all. There needed to be an outward show of peace amongst the Houses, especially between the Baratheons and Targaryens. 

 

“Alright,” he acquiesced. “How much will this tourney cost us?”

 

Varys reached into one of his long, billowy sleeves of imported silk from Lys and pulled out a rolled up piece of parchment, tied together with a string of red ribbon. He wordlessly handed it over to Ned, who untied the red ribbon and unfurled the parchment.

 

“Twenty thousand golden dragons to the champion,” he read aloud. “Fifteen thousand for the man who comes in second, another fifteen to the winner of the melee, and ten thousand to the victor of the archery competition.”

 

“Sixty thousand pieces,” said Littlefinger. “And let us not forget the other costs. I would assume, Your Grace, that you would like big and hearty feast?”

 

Rhaegar nodded his silver head. “Yes, to feed all those families and the others who wish to join. I want everything to look beautiful and rich, I can't have the Lannisters or the Tyrells saying that I look cheap.” Ned thought that was out of character for Rhaegar, but he didn't voice his opinion. Mayhaps he wanted to impress his future son-in-law?

 

Littlefinger nodded. “So that includes cooks, carpenters, serving men and women, singers, jugglers, fools…”

 

“We have fools in plenty,” grunted Lord Jon Connington.

 

“Can we spare this expense, Your Grace?” Ned had to ask.

 

Rhaegar nodded his head, but Grand Maester Pycelle spoke.

 

“The Realm has flourished under King Rhaegar’s rule. We haven't been in debt in over ten years,” he wheezed.

 

“Very well,” Ned nodded. 

 

“See that it's done,” said Rhaegar and all the members of the Small Council bowed their heads humbly.

 

“What next?” Ned asked, his head pounding with tension.

 

“The subject of marriage,” said Rhaegar. “Between Rhaenys and Jaime Lannister. I want no expense spared for my daughter. This is supposed to be the happiest day of her life, and besides, the Martells would feel even more insulted than they already are if the whole affair wasn't lavish.”

 

Littlefinger nodded. “Half a million golden dragons?” He asked. “Would that cover it?”

 

Rhaegar nodded, “I believe so. My daughter’s dress is to be made of the finest ivory silk found on this world, and her hair adornments must be of the finest Dornish craftsmanship.”

 

“Of course, Your Grace,” twitched Littlefinger.

 

“Your Grace, if I may,” spoke Varys. “What of your siblings marriage? It is happening in a month’s time, is it not?”

 

“Yes,” said Rhaegar. “My Mother is handling the affairs on Dragonstone. She wants the Tyrells, the Baratheons, the Lannisters, and your family, Lord Stark, to be there.”

 

Ned nodded. “I'm sure my daughter, Sansa, would be delighted to come, Your Grace.”

 

“And what of your son, Jaehaerys?” asked Varys.

 

Rhaegar looked up. “What about him?” He asked.

 

“He’ll be in want of a bride soon, won't he? I can think of no better choice than Lady Margaery of House Tyrell,” Varys reached into his sleeves again and pulled out a miniature portrait, handing it over to Rhaegar.

 

Rhaegar looked at it a moment, before saying, “Isn’t she married to Renly Baratheon?”

 

Varys tittered. “Well, yes,” he said, “but my little birds have heard whispers that their marriage has yet to be consummated. You could easily have their marriage annulled.”

 

“And risk the wrath of Robert? I think not,” Rhaegar handed the miniature back over to Varys and said, “We’ll talk of my son’s marriage when he is actually here, in the Capital. For now, I want nothing more said on the subject.”

 

“Yes, Your Grace,” said Varys, bowing his gleaming bald head lowly.

 

Rhaegar smiled slightly at him and turned to the rest of the Small Council, “I believe that will be all today. I think Lord Stark needs to go get some rest, I know I do.”

 

Ned stood up gratefully and gave a deep bow of respect to the King and his fellow Council members before being the first to depart, his mind on a nice glorious soak in a tub before he laid down upon the soft featherbed and closed his eyes for some much needed sleep.


	15. CATELYN I

**CATELYN I**

 

 

Catelyn had received word from Robb two days ago, informing her that he and the Prince Jon had arrived in Castle Black, safe and sound. She nearly fell to her knees in relief. Both her husband, and four out of her five children had gone and left her, and she was desolate without and nearly mad with worry.

 

Almost the moment she had read the letter she had received from Robb, she swiftly walked to the little sept that Ned had built for her when they got married, and sang her praises to her Gods, thanking them for allowing her eldest son to be safe.

 

Now, two days later, she was sick with worry again. She hadn't heard a word from Ned or the girls, although she tried to tell herself that their journey was a long one, and they most likely still hadn't arrived in King’s Landing.

 

But logic seemed to evade her.

 

She spent all hours of the day by her youngest child, Rickon’s, side, smothering him with all the motherly affection she could offer until he ran off with his wild, black-haired direwolf, Shaggydog.

 

When he would leave her, Catelyn tried to busy herself with other things, like helping Maester Luwin with the appointments. They needed a new steward, a new captain of the guards, amongst other things. They also had to figure the accounts, on what the royal visit had cost them.

 

Catelyn sat in the Maester’s turret, going over the figures.

 

“So that was eleven barrels of ale, ten barrels of summerwine, six barrels of spiced wine, ten roasted ducks, thirty loafs of buttered bread, and...what else?” Catelyn looked up at Maester Luwin, who held the parchment containing the accounts in his hand.

 

“Six pigs slaughtered for sausage, bacon, and ham, and a whole livery of pastries, amongst others,” said Maester Luwin.

 

“And how much did this visit cost us?”

 

“Ten thousand golden dragons.”

 

“ _Ten thousand_?” Catelyn was aghast. “Surely not!”

 

“I'm afraid so, my Lady,” said Maester Luwin. “There was a good deal of men who traveled with the King, as well as the visiting bannermen from the North.”

 

Catelyn sighed. “Can we afford it?” She asked after a moment.

 

“Lucky for us, the King left us a purse of eight thousand golden dragons,” said Maester Luwin. “As thanks for our hospitality. All we need to do is come up with the other two thousand, which I believe there is enough in our vaults.”

 

“Get it, then,” said Catelyn, tiring of this conversation. “And be sure to send a raven to King’s Landing, thanking the King for his generosity.”

 

“Of course, my Lady,” said Maester Luwin, bowing his head.

 

Catelyn stood up from the table and breezed out of the stone turret, walking across towards the Great Keep, where her chambers were. She needed to take a nice, long soak in her tub, ease her mind of her worries a bit.

 

Catelyn’s chambers were the warmest ones in the whole of the Great Keep. The scalding water that flowed through the walls from the natural hot springs the Great Keep was built over. It was a great relief in Winter, it was the difference between life and death.

 

Catelyn had her chambermaids draw a hot bath, and help her remove her dark green woolen dress, stepping into the steaming  water. Her chambermaids tied her long, auburn hair out the way so it wouldn't get wet, then left her to her own devices.

 

She sat in her wooden tub, arms resting on the sides, and ruminated over the last few weeks.

 

It had been almost a month since Ned left with her girls and Bran, and her stomach was in constant knots with worry for them. She prayed to the Gods that they would have a safe journey and arrive in King’s Landing in one piece. She regretted what she said to Ned before he left; he was her husband, he needed her support in his decisions and she didn't give that to him. She hoped he was not angry or disappointed with her.

 

Catelyn was glad, however, that Robb was safe. The Prince has seemed fond of her son in the fortnight he and his family had stayed in Winterfell, and she knew in her hardest of hearts that he wouldn't let anything happen to her son. Nor Robb of Jon, for the way she caught him looking at Jon sometimes.

 

Her son must've taken her for a fool, thinking he could sneak around Winterfell, even in the dead of night, without her noticing. Catelyn tried to turn a blind eye, even though what her son was doing was going against the very teachings of the Seven. She tried her hardest to blame Jon, but she found that she couldn't, not with the way he would smile so warmly at her son, and Robb to him.

 

 _No matter_ she thought _Robb will do his duty and marry, as will Jon. They will soon forget this silly notion of being with each other._

 

But, even as she thought it, she couldn't find it within herself to believe it was true. The way Robb looked at Jon was the very same look she gave his Uncle Brandon, so many years ago, and then, later, Ned.

 

Catelyn sunk further down into the tub, until her chin was resting in the water, trying to block out those thoughts. She brought her mind onto the subject of her youngest child, Rickon, who seemed to just be practically running wild.

 

He was more content to run through the godswood with his direwolf, laughing and hooting and howling, than he was spending time with Maester Luwin over lessons. His curly auburn hair, the same shade as Catelyn, would shake as he ran, glimmering in the weak sunlight that filtered through the thick foliage of the godswood.

 

Catelyn did what she could to tame him, but he was becoming increasingly difficult. He was probably lonely, if Catelyn had to guess, all of his brothers and sisters and Father gone, leaving him behind with his Mother. Her heart broke for his dejected face when he would sometimes forget that his siblings weren't there and he called out for them, only to hear silence.

 

She was broken out of her reverie by a knock on the door and Maester Luwin’s voice.

 

“My Lady? May I come in? There's been a rider come, from the Eyrie.”

 

Catelyn startled.

 

 _The Eyrie?!_ She thought. _But that's Jon Arryn’s home, and he's dead!_

 

Catelyn found her voice and said, “Come in.” She stood up out the bath as he entered, naked as the day she was born but neither of them paid any mind. Maester Luwin was the one to deliver all of her children; this was nothing he hadn't seen before.

 

She stepped out of the tub and robed herself in deep green, tying the sash about her waist before taking the seal parchment from the Maester. She broke the seal, bearing the sigil of the House Arryn, and read the letter.

 

Her Tully blue eyes became increasingly wide as she read and she could feel Maester Luwin’s concerned gaze on her. Almost as soon as she was finished, she turned to her burning hearth and threw the letter into the flames, watching it burn.

 

Maester Luwin startled. “What did it say?” He asked.

 

Catelyn motioned for him to close the chamber door and he did, without hesitation.

 

Catelyn gave a deep breath once the door was closed and said, “It was from my sister, Lysa. She's fled to the Eyrie.”

 

“Fled? What on earth for?”

 

“She says that _Jon Arryn_ was _murdered_ , by the Targaryens!” Catelyn couldn't believe this for one second and judging by the look on Maester Luwin’s face, neither did he.

 

“Nonsense!” He said. “Why would the Targaryens murder Jon Arryn? Lyanna was quite fond of him, for he raised her brother after all.”

 

“I know,” said Catelyn. “But still, she surely wouldn't have risked such a letter if it didn't hold some semblance of truth. If this letter had fallen into the wrong hands, Lysa’s head would be on a spike!”

 

“That may be so,” said Maester Luwin, “but does she give any _reason_ as to why the Targaryens had him killed.”

 

“Well, no…”

 

“Then, I have a hard time believing her. King Rhaegar is a kind, honest man. I highly doubt he would have Jon Arryn killed, even they happened to disagree or something.”

 

“Even so,” said Catelyn. “My heart will not cease to worry for my husband until I find out the truth of Lysa’s words.”

 

“Mayhaps you could send her a letter…?”

 

“No,” said Catelyn firmly. “I don't trust a raven or a rider with these words. No, I must—I must go to her myself.”

  
  



	16. ARYA II

**ARYA II**

 

Arya received word from Aunt Lyanna a week into their stay in King’s Landing. Arya had spent that week doing as she asked, watching the men and boys fight in the training yards, seeing how they moved with their swords and trying to copy them. She felt very confident with herself after a week, feeling as though she could fight anything if she wanted to. Nymeria appraised her with her watchful golden-yellow eyes.

 

Aunt Lyanna had sent a man in Targaryen colors, carrying a folded piece of parchment with a red seal of a three-headed dragon. Arya was sitting at luncheon with her sister and Septa Mordane, Bran nowhere to be found but probably out practicing or worse,  _ climbing _ . Sansa watched with disbelieving blue eyes as Arya took the letter and the man bowed before leaving.

 

_ That's right _ Arya thought haughtily,  _ the Queen loves  _ _ me _ _ more than you, Sansa! _

 

She broke open the seal and began to read, her eyes darting back and forth excitedly as she read what her Aunt Lyanna had to say.

 

_ Dearest Arya,  _ it said in Lyanna’s loopy penmanship

 

_ I hope this letter finds you well. Forgive me for not coming and talking to you in person, but I have found myself relegated to Maegor’s Holdfast for the time being. I hear from your confused Father that you’ve been doing as I asked and I am most pleased, but now, it's time for some  _ _ real _ _ lessons. Go to the Small Hall tomorrow noontime. And wear trousers! _

 

_ Your loving Aunt,  _

 

_ The Queen _

 

Arya had to hold herself in from squealing with delight as she read her letter, lest Sansa figured out what she was up to, but it must have shown on her face anyhow, for Sansa spoke up.

 

“What did the Queen want?” Arya could detect a hint of jealousy in her voice and felt triumphant.

 

“Nothing important,” sniffed Arya. “Just saying how much she missed me.” She delighted in seeing the sour look upon her face. “And that she's done what I asked.”

 

“Which is?”

 

“Arranging for me to have…dancing lessons.”

 

“Dancing lessons?” Sansa scoffed. “Like you would be seen anywhere near a dancing lesson!”

 

“Well, I am!” Arya shouted. “You’re just jealous because the Queen didn't arrange for  _ you  _ to have dancing lessons. She probably thinks you’re too clumsy!”

 

Sansa turned a bright red and glared at her plate of mutton chops sauced in honey and mashed yellow turnips.

 

“Arya!” scolded their septa. “Apologize to your sister at once!”

 

Arya didn't want to, but she knew she needed to be on good terms with the septa if she was going to allow her to go off on her own tomorrow so she said, “I'm sorry.” She didn't sound sorry at all, but Septa Mordane seemed pleased.

 

Arya excused herself from the table and nearly ran to her room in excitement. She shut the great oak door behind her and leaned up against it, her heart hammering in her chest.

 

_ Real sword lessons!  _ She squealed in her head. 

 

The next day couldn't come fast enough, Arya decided, as she settled into her four-poster featherbed that night. She willed her eyes shut, wide and nervous from excitement, and finally fell asleep when it was well into the night.

 

She awoke to the sound of rapping on her door and the sound of her septa’s voice.

 

“Arya!” She said. “Get up, young lady, or you will be  _ late  _ for your dancing lessons!”

 

Arya’s eyes snapped open and she all but flew from her bed, hastily throwing on some suitable clothes of a light linen undershirt and a pair of brown trousers with boots. 

 

She ran down the hall, ignoring Septa Mordane’s cries, and made her way to the Small Hall, just on the other side of the portcullis. 

 

When she entered, panting and out of breath, there was a peculiar man standing in the center. The trestle tables had been dismantled and the benches shoved up against the walls.

 

The man spoke with an unfamiliar accent. “You are late, boy,” he said. He was a slight man with a bald head and a great beak of a nose, holding a pair of slender wooden swords. “Tomorrow you will be here midday.” Arya tried to place the accent. Mayhaps it was from the Free Cities, Braavos or Myr.

 

“Who are you?” Arya asked.

 

“You’re dancing master,” He tossed her one of the wooden blades. She tried to grab for it but missed and listened as it clattered to the floor. “Tomorrow you will catch it. Now pick it up.”

 

It wasn't a stick, but a true wooden sword complete with grip and guard and pommel. Arya picked it up and clutched it with both hands, like she'd seen other boys do. She held it out in front of her. It was most definitely heavier than Needle.

 

The bald man made a clicking sound with his teeth and said, “That is not the way, boy. This is not a greatsword that is needing two hands to swing it. You will take the blade in one hand.”

 

“But it's too heavy,” Arya said.

 

“It is heavy as it needs to be to make you strong, and for the balancing. A hollow inside is filled with lead, just so. One hand now is all that is needing.”

 

Arya took her right hand off the grip and wiped the sweat off her palm onto her trousers. She held the sword in her left hand and the man seemed to approve. 

 

“The left is good. All is reversed, it will make your enemies more awkward. Now, you are standing wrong. Turn your body sideface, yes, so. You are skinny as the shaft of a spear, did you know? That is good too, the target is smaller. Now the grip. Let me see.” He moved closer and peered at her hand, prying her fingers apart and rearranging them. “Just so, yes. Do not squeeze it so tight, no, the grip must be deft, delicate.”

 

“What if I drop it?” Arya asked.

 

“The steel must be a part of your arm,” the bald man told her. “Can you drop part of your arm? No. Nine years Syrio Forel was first sword to the Sealord of Braavos, he knows these things. Listen to him, boy.”

 

That was the third time he had called her “boy”. “I'm not a boy,” said Arya. “I'm a girl!”

 

“Boy, girl,” Syrio Forel said. “You are a sword, that is all.” He clicked his teeth together again. “Just so, that is the grip. You are not holding a battle-axe, you are holding a—”

 

“— _ needle _ ,” Arya finished for him, fiercely.

 

“Just so. Now, we will begin the dance. Remember child, this is not the iron dance of Westeros we are learning, the knight’s dance with the hacking and hammering, no. This is the bravo’s dance, the water dance, swift and sudden. All men are made of water, do you know this? When you pierce them,” he touched his wooden sword to Arya’s belly, “the water leaks out and they die.” He removed the sword and took a step backward, raising his own wooden blade. “Now, you will try to strike me.”

 

Arya tied to strike him. She tried for four hours, until every muscle in her body was sore and aching, while Syrio Forel clicked his teeth together and told her what to do. 

 

The next day was when their real work began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Arya meets Syrio Forel! I always liked him...
> 
> More Jon x Robb coming up...things will get interesting!!! And intense, I hope:)
> 
> And ugh, once again I had to take from the original story but I promise y'all I am trying not to make it a habit, just sometimes the scenes line up :/


	17. JON III

**JON III**

 

Jon woke in a bed that was not his own, two weeks after they had arrived in Castle Black, with strong, broad arms wrapped around him. He smiled to himself and looked up to see Robb, snoring peacefully. 

 

He was starting to grow stubble around his chin, as was Jon, for neither of them felt compelled to look pretty up in the harsh North of Castle Black.

 

They were both naked under the sheets, which had been a fact for almost the entire time they’d been there, for neither one of them could their hands off the other. Jon often found himself dragging Robb into some dark corner of Castle Black and having his way with him. Robb did very little complaining.

 

Jon shifted in the bed and watched as Robb blinked open his Tully blue eyes, and stared down at him blearily.

 

“Good morn, Robb,” he said. He couldn't keep the smile off his face.

 

Neither could Robb. It spread across his face and he replied, “Good morn, Jon.”

 

Jon stretched and wrapped his arms about Robb’s neck, pulling him close. Robb leaned down and captured Jon’s lips with his, in a sweet, chaste kiss. When they pulled away, Jon was grinning.

 

Robb grinned back and snuck a hand under the furs, groping Jon’s backside, causing him to moan.

 

“Stop!” He said, not really meaning it at all. “I have to get up soon. I'm going to watch the men practice in the yard with the Lord Commander.”

 

“Mmm. Can I come?” Robb asked, a sly grin on his face as his hand went lower and stroked the cleft of Jon’s ass.

 

“ _ Ah _ , yes, if you can be a good little lord and let me get dressed.”

 

“And if I don't?” Robb practically purred.

 

“Then you’ll be disobeying an order from your future King,” said Jon, mock serious.

 

Robb looked at him and scoff-laughed, Jon barely keeping his face together until he too started laughing. They dissolved into giggles and clutched at each other under the furs as they tried to get it under control.

 

“Alright, alright,” said Robb, after Jon pinched him beneath the ribs. “Go on, get up.”

 

Jon smirked and tumbled out of the bed, his bare feet hitting the freezing stone floor. He felt Robb’s eyes on him as he got dressed, pulling on his layers and securing his cloak about his shoulders. 

 

When he pulled up his trousers, he heard Robb groan, “Don't cover it up!”

 

Jon looked back at him and grinned wide. “You would have me standing out in the freezing cold with no pants on to keep me warm?” He teased.

 

“As long as I could look at your glorious arse,” said Robb.

 

Jon rolled his eyes and made a show of pulling up his trousers all the way, teasingly wiggling his backside a bit as he pulled them up. Jon didn't know why he was acting so brazen with Robb. It just felt natural to tease him, all the solemness he felt before gone in his presence.

 

He finished getting dressed and turned to Robb. “Well, come on!” He said. “You said you wanted to go with me.”

 

“Aye,” said Robb, sliding out of the furs. “I did.”

 

He got dressed in his many layers and pulled on his cloak, the fur situated nicely about his shoulders. As Jon went to open the door, Robb grabbed his hand and pulled him into one last kiss before they went out. Jon smiled sweetly as Robb’s tongue tangled with his and they were soon pulling apart, both breathless.

 

“I—” Robb started to say something, his Tully blue eyes full of warmth and something else that was on the tip of Jon’s tongue but he couldn't quite place it, before he shook his head and said, “Nevermind. Let's go see how good the men of the Night’s Watch are.”

 

Jon eyed him a moment with his deep violet eyes before deciding to drop it, and opened the door, ushering Robb and their direwolves out the door. 

 

The guards were standing to attention outside the door, which was Robb’s. They knew by now that Jon preferred to stay in his rooms, so they wordlessly moved sides. Another man may have been worried that the guards might say something to someone about the nature of Jon and Robb’s relationship, but Jon wasn't worried. They were his personal guards, some had been his since he was but a lad. He could trust them.

 

The direwolves followed right at Jon and Robb’s heels as they walked down the stone steps of the King’s Tower and out the oak towards the Lord Commander, who stood on his perch with his raven on his shoulder.

 

“ _ Corn! Corn! _ ” It yelled as they approached.

 

“Sorry,” said Robb. “All out.”

 

The bird looked at him, unimpressed.

 

The courtyard rang with the sound of the practice swords clanging against each other in the Northern cold. The air was frigid and it seemed like a fresh snow was soon to come, to paint the courtyard white.

 

“Look at them,” grunted the Lord Commander, gesturing to the boys training in the yard. “Summer boys, all of them. I bet none of them have held a sword in their life!”

 

Jon and Robb looked down at the boys and watched as they fumbled their way through their marks, missing more than half.

 

“They just need training,” said Jon thoughtfully. “I could show them a few things, if you’d like.”

 

Lord Commander Mormont eyed him. “That might be good,” he said. “I bet you’re as good a warrior as your Father.”

 

Jon blushed bright red. “I'm nowhere near as good as him,” he said, looking at his boots. “But I know a few things.”

 

Robb scoffed. “He's being modest,” he said. “He beat me in less than two minutes. No one’s ever done that before!”

 

“Alright,” the Lord Commander acquiesced. He turned to the boys down below and yelled, “Ser Erac! Prince Jon here is going to show these summer boys a few moves!”

 

Ser Erac was the man training the boys. He had close set brown eyes and a large nose, with a mouth that was always set in a scowl, like now. He bowed, almost mockingly and said, “If it please you.” He didn't sound happy about it at all.

 

Jon removed his cloak, which Robb took out of his hands with a sly wink, told Ghost to stay, which he did obediently, then descended the wooden steps down onto the training courtyard, his leather boots crunching on the rushes on the ground.

 

The boys look terrified as he approached. Jon figured it was because he was the Crown Prince, next in line for the Throne, and most of them were criminals, rapers or thieves. Jon didn't care what they were. At the Wall, you left all of that behind you when you took your vows, something that sounded very promising to Jon when he was young.

 

And sometimes still did…

 

He looked at the lineup of boys and saw one trembling in his boots. He was very fat, but well dressed with nice leathers. Jon guessed he was highborn. The boy was failing in an attempt to make himself look small.

 

“You,” Jon said, pointing at him. “What's your name?”

 

The boy could barely speak. “S—Samwell T—Tarly, of Ho—Horn Hill, Your Grace.” he stuttered. Then he said, “Or I  _ was  _ of Horn Hill before—before I left.”

 

“Tarly?” Jon echoed. The boy gave a jerky nod. “Is your Father Randyll Tarly?”

 

The boy’s face soured but he nodded.

 

Jon gestured him to come forward, the boy looked like to piss himself. “Have you ever picked up a sword, Samwell Tarly?”

 

“Not really,” Samwell admitted. “I prefer books.” 

 

“And food!” said a mean looking boy. The others laughed until Jon gave them all a glare.

 

“I prefer books too, Sam. Can I call you Sam?” Jon tried to dissipate some of Samwell’s fears by talking to him gently, as if he was calming down a spooked horse.

 

Sam gave another nod. “You can call me whatever you like, Your Grace.”

 

“Books are good for you,” said Jon. “Good for your mind, but a book won't help you much when you are surrounded by wildings.”

 

Sam’s eyes went wide, shaken to the bone at the mere mention of wildings.

 

“So,” said Jon, drawing his sword Vhagar from its hilt. He saw the other boys stare at the Valyrian steel in awe. “I'm going to teach you a few things, so if the day comes when you are surrounded by wildings, you might just make it out alive, alright?”

 

Sam gulped but held up his practice sword, his hand shaking so hard the sword shook with it.

 

“No, no,” said Jon, holding out his sword to show him how to properly hold it. “Not so tight. Loosely, that's it. Don't be afraid. I'm not going to hurt you.”

 

“Now,” said Jon. “First thing we need to work on is your stance, it's all awkward and too straight. Loosen your back a little, as if you could float away in the wind with a single gust.”

 

“That's not likely,” snorted the mean boy.

 

Jon jerked his head around. “You have something to say?”

 

The mean boy paled and shook his head, staring at his feet.

 

Jon glared at the boy before returning to his attention to Sam. “Alright, good stance,” he said. “Now, I want you to try to strike me.”

 

Sam paled and shook his head, “I—I can't, Your Grace.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Well, because—because—you’re the Prince!”

 

Jon laughed. “You think Ser Barristan the Bold or Ser Arthur Dayne cared that I was the Prince when they trained me? They struck at me hard and true, for that was the only way I was going to learn.”

 

Sam’s eyes lit up, “You were trained by Barristan the Bold and Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning?!” At Jon’s nod, he suddenly turned dejected. “Then there’s no way I'll be able to hit you.”

 

Jon smiled reassuringly at him. “The only way you’ll know is if you try, and as my Father says, the only thing you can really do in life is try.” Jon could feel Robb’s eyes on him and he looked up to see them warm and shining with approval. They smiled at each other before Jon turned back to Sam.

 

Sam looked up, and Jon saw a sliver of determination shining in his eyes. He smiled and gestured him forward.

 

Sam never did strike him, but he tried and he tried, listening to every piece of advice that Jon gave him, so Jon was pleased. 

 

The other boys, however, didn't share the same sentiments. They started sniggering when it was obvious that Sam wasn't going to hit Jon, probably not ever. And that mean boy started making comments again.

 

“I’d like to carve me up a slice of Ser Piggy, I'm sure he'd feed me well enough for days,  _ weeks  _ even,” he was saying and the other boys laughed.

 

Jon had had enough. He held out a hand to stop Sam’s movements and said, “That will be all, Sam, thank you. You’ll do better tomorrow.”

 

Sam was heaving heavily from his exercise, beads of sweat dripping down his moon-shaped face, and said mournfully, “No, I won't. I never do.”

 

He walked back over to the other boys who gave him a wide berth, which made Jon sad. Then he pointed to the mean looking boy and said, “ _ You _ . What’s your name?”

 

The mean looking boy scowled. “Rast,” he spat. Then, as if it was an afterthought, “Your Grace.” He said this very mockingly. Jon didn't like him one bit.

 

“Come show me what you’re made of,  _ Rast _ ,” Jon said, smirking a bit.

 

Rast scowled deeply and walked towards Jon. He gripped his sword in hand, the wrong grip, but Jon didn't tell him so. He wanted to knock some manners into this boy.

 

He raised his sword and said, “Try and strike me.”

 

Rast ran towards him, all blundering and Jon quickly sidestepped him. Rast growled and swiped at him again, but Jon just moved backwards, away from the sword. Rast was getting impatient now, and even more sloppy. He roared and charged at him, but Jon moved away and smacked his head with the blunt of sword, sending him to the ground with a headache.

 

“Your technique is all wrong,” said Jon. “I just rang your head like bell, because you didn't keep your sword up.”

 

Rast muttered something under his breath but Jon ignored him. “Okay,” he said. “Who’s next?”

 

He spent all afternoon with those boys and concluded that not all of them were completely hopeless, but some of them might as well be. He returned to Robb and Lord Commander Mormont breathless and sweaty.

 

“You’re a good teacher, Your Grace,” said Robb as he handed him back his cloak. “Some of them might have even learned something.” He smirked.

 

“That Tarly boy’s hopeless,” growled Lord Commander Mormont. “I’ll most likely be making him a steward.”

 

“That'd probably be best,” agreed Jon. Then, he said, “Does he have any friends?”

 

“Tarly? No,” said Mormont. “The boys think he's too craven.”

 

“He needs friends if he's going to be here on the Wall,” said Jon.

 

“Why don't we go and talk to some, ease their hearts a little?” Robb suggested.

 

Jon smiled, “What a wonderful idea.”

 

They said their goodbye's to Lord Commander Mormont and went down into the courtyard, surveying the boys as they changed out of their training wear and put away their practice swords.

 

“Not that Rast,” said Robb. “I didn't like the way he glared at you.”

 

“No, definitely not,” agreed Jon. He spied two guys off to the side, who were joking with each other and seemed happy enough. “What about them? Grenn and Pypar, I believe.”

 

“They seem nice enough,” said Robb. “Let's go talk to them.”

 

They walked across the courtyard and approached the two boys. Grenn was the first to notice them and smacked Pypar in the stomach with a wide-eyed look on his face. Pypar turned around and stopped laughing. 

 

“Your Grace!” He squeaked, his big ears burning. He swept into a low bow and glared at Grenn until he did the same.

 

“Please,” said Jon, motioning for them to straighten themselves up. “There's no need for such formalities. I— _ we _ —wanted to talk to you two.”

 

“ _ Us _ ?” Grenn was confused, a look Jon suspected made its home on his face quite often. “Why us?”

 

“You two look like good boys, aren't you?” asked Jon.

 

“Yes,” they said at once.

 

“What do you think of Samwell Tarly?” Robb asked.

 

Grenn and Pypar shared a look. They looked uneasy to share the truth with the future King of Westeros and heir of Winterfell.

 

“Well…” began Pypar, his ears burning again.

 

“Speak truly,” said Jon.

 

“He's a craven,” said Grenn bluntly. 

 

“Aye, that may be true,” said Jon. “But he has a good heart and a kindness about him that is rare in these parts.”

 

“What good does a good heart do on the Wall?” Pypar asked.

 

“Keeps you warm, in the long nights to come,” said Robb. Grenn and Pypar shared a look.

 

“Speak to him,” said Jon. “Try to be his friends. Gods know you need them here.”

 

“If Your Grace commands it,” said Pypar reluctantly.

 

“I do,” said Jon, not bothering to correct him this time.

 

Later that night, after they had finished their meal with the Lord Commander and their Uncle Benjen, Robb pulled Jon into a dark corner of the castle and kissed him senseless.

 

“Let's go up to the top of the Wall,” he suggested hotly in his ear. “I bet we could get some good privacy.”

 

“There's good privacy in your room,” Jon pointed out teasingly.

 

Robb rolled his eyes. “But when could you ever say you had sex on top of the Wall?” He asked.

 

Jon laughed, “We’d freeze!”

 

“We’ll keep our cloaks on,” Robb tugged on Jon’s arm. “Come on!”

 

Jon laughed but let him lead him away to the iron cage that would pull them up the side of the Wall. They left their direwolves to play amongst the courtyard.  _ Gods, _ how they had grown! They were now at the least the size of an average dog, though Ghost ran a bit shorter than his brother, although Jon assumed it was because he was the runt of the litter.

 

They entered iron cage and closed the door, Jon tugging on the bell rope a good three times before the cage was swung into motion. They stood next to each other the entire ride up, barely touching in freezing cold but Jon felt as though he was burning with a fever through through his layers. 

 

Jon looked up and met Robb’s gaze. It was steaming with lust—lust for  _ him _ . That fact still shocked Jon. He knew, subjectively, that he was good looking. He saw the ladies at court swoon and fawn over him and his half-brother, Aegon, but he was too solemn and preferred his solitude. That was, until,  _ Robb _ .

 

Robb seemed to change everything about him. He was more outgoing, more outspoken, more comfortable in his own skin. He brought out something in Jon, made him feel  _ whole _ .

 

Jon didn't know what to make of that.

 

They finally made it to the icy top. They could see Mole’s Town from afar, and the mountain tops speckled with snow. Jon heard the men who pulled the iron cage curse silently when they saw him and Robb.

 

“It's the Prince!” One of them whispered to the others. 

 

“Aye, and the Stark lad. Well, let them in!” grunted a second voice.

 

There was a grunt and loud groaning of wood as the cage slid sideways and the Wall was suddenly beneath them. They waited until the swinging stopped, then they jumped down onto the ice. They gave their thanks to the men who controlled the winch, both of the men plump with layers of leather and wool, and black scarves that hid everything on their faces except their eyes.

 

Robb and Jon walked down the Wall, Jon looking out onto the horizon. It was dark now, the sun had already set and the sky was a dark purple. The sight was something to behold. He looked down onto the haunted forest that seemed to go forever in almost every direction to the North.

 

They walked down the ice until they thought they were well enough alone, then Robb shoved him against the Wall of snow and ice and kissed the daylights out of him, slipping his tongue into his mouth happily.

 

Jon quickly opened up, eager to be kissing back, when he heard a squeak and a shuffling noise. He and Robb threw themselves away from each other as if they had been burned but the damage had been done. 

 

They had been seen, by someone other than Jon’s personal guards.

 

It was Samwell Tarly, standing there shamefaced and as red as the sun.

 

“I—I didn't see anything!” He squeaked, although his face betrayed him. “I swear!”

 

“Sam—” Jon tried to say, but Robb cut him off.

 

“You'd do best not to say anything,” he threatened, showing off his full height and broad physique.

 

“I—I won't,” said Sam, and Jon believed him. “I—I don't care, anyhow. Everyone knows that Loras Tyrell, of House Tyrell, the House my Father is bannerman for, prefers men.”

 

Jon didn't know what to say to that, so instead he said, “What are you doing up here?”

 

“They put me on watch duty. I guess they figured I could stand the cold with all my fat,” said Sam. “The funny thing is though: I'm scared of heights.”

 

Robb was incredulous. “Then what are you doing here, then?”

 

Sam turned serious. “You want the truth?” He asked solemnly.

 

Jon and Robb looked at each other, then nodded.

 

“On my eighteenth nameday, my Father came to me and said ‘You are a man grown now, and my heir. You have given me no cause to disown you, but neither will I allow you to inherit the land and title that should be Dickon’s,’ my brother. ‘Heartsbane,’ he said, ‘must go to a man strong enough to wield her, and you are not worthy to touch her hilt. So, I have decided that you shall this day announce that you wish to take the Black. You will forsake your claim to your brother’s inheritance and start North before evenfall. If you do not, then on the morrow we shall have a hunt, and somewhere in these woods your horse will stumble, and you will be thrown from your saddle to die...or that's what I'll tell your Mother. She has a woman’s heart and finds it in her to cherish even you, and I have no wish to truly cause her pain. Please do not imagine that it will truly be that easy if you wish to defy me. Nothing would please me more than to hunt you down like the pig you are.’”

 

Sam’s words were so haunting to Jon, that he felt like he might cry from the unfairness of it all. What kind of Father does that his child? He could never imagine his own Father doing that to any of his children, for a Father is supposed to love their child, no matter what. 

 

Robb looked sick and said, quite brusquely, “Well,  _ fuck him _ .”

 

Jon and Sam both looked at him, shocked at his language.

 

“Fuck him,” said Robb, with even more vehemence. “Make yourself a Man of the Night's Watch and every night, go to sleep with the knowledge that your are ten times the man your Father is.”

 

Jon saw tears glisten in Sam’s eyes and he said quietly, “Thank you, my Lord.”

 

Robb waved him off, “Think nothing of it, Sam.”

 

They stood there in silence for a few moments, Sam sniffling a bit, and Jon studied Robb, standing there looking out to the North.

 

_ What a good, kind man _ thought Jon,  _ I think I— _

 

Jon shook his head of those thoughts that seemed to be plaguing his mind recently and instead looked out over the Wall with Robb.

 

“It's a sight, isn't it?” Robb spoke, breaking the silence. “Even in the dark.”

 

“Aye, it is,” said Jon.

 

“I hear there’s a heart tree just beyond,” said Robb. “That's where Uncle Benjen made his vows. Do you want to go see it? This may be your last chance, we leave in three days.”

 

Jon looked at him and smiled. “Why not?” He said.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay Sam! I love Sam, Sam's a good bean:)


	18. ROBB III

**ROBB III**

 

They rode out at first light, Robb, Jon, Uncle Benjen, and a gaggle of men of the Night's Watch and Jon’s personal guards, their direwolves running beside their horses. They trotted underneath the Wall, in the icy tunnel that led from Castle Black out onto the other side, to the North.

 

The great iron door that separated them from Beyond the Wall, inched higher and higher until the snowy and frozen land could be seen. Once the gate was fully open, Grey Wind and Ghost took off running, eager to go exploring new lands.

 

“Hey!” Robb called, about to click his horse into a gallop to chase after them, but Jon put out a hand and stopped him.

 

“Let them go,” he said quietly. “They’ll find their way back to us.”

 

Robb looked at him and the certainty with which he spoke was written on his face. He nodded and clicked his heels into his horse, bringing him into a slow trot. Jon did the same.

 

The moment they passed under the gate, they were met with a bitter, freezing cold, unlike any Robb had ever felt in his life. He was suddenly thankful for the many layers he wore, his leather and wool and fur cloak all cocooning him in a semblance of warmth, but he could still feel the cold nipping at his nose.

 

Immediately Beyond the Wall, there was a stretch of snowy land about half a mile long, that the Night’s Watch had kept clear of the encroaching haunted forest just beyond that. Robb could see the bare trees of ironwood, oak, and sentinel. He knew somewhere in those woods were heart trees, and he hoped to have a moment alone with Jon to kiss him before one again. 

 

It seemed as though Uncle Benjen could read his mind. “Don't go far, lads. It would be a bad thing if the future King of Westeros and the heir of Winterfell got lost in these parts,” he said as they crossed into the forest.

 

“We won't,” said Jon solemnly and Robb scowled silently to himself.

 

They picked their way through the ice and snow carefully, their horses trotting with a nervous feel about them. 

 

_ They don't like these woods  _ thought Robb.

 

“Uncle Benjen,” said Robb after a moment, gazing at the ever present white that accosted them on all sides. “Where is the nearest heart tree?”

 

Uncle Benjen eyed him. “About a few clicks North that way,” he pointed with a gloved hand.

 

“Got it,” said Robb. He turned his head back to grin at Jon, who stared at him confused for a moment before realization dawned on him. Robb didn't give him a chance to respond before his clicked his heels hard into his horse and snapped his reins, sending him into a hard gallop.

 

He heard Uncle Benjen curse and Jon say, “Don’t worry. I'll go get him.” Then he heard the sounds of a second pair of hoofs galloping after him and he grinned as the cold wind whipped at his face.

 

He galloped as fast as he could through the trees, the cold smacking him in the face like a slap, until he finally spotted a white tree amongst the darker ones of ironwood and oak. As he got closer, he could see the face carved into the tree, bleeding red. The only color in the otherwise white world. He slowed his horse down into a trot and brought him close to the heart tree before he dismounted, his leather boots crunching in the snow.

 

He looked behind him and saw nothing at first, only heard the galloping of hooves, until Jon burst into view, rearing his horse up.

 

“Are you insane?!” Jon yelled. “It's dangerous for us to be out here alone!”

 

“I didn't know you were the type to shy away from danger,” quipped Robb, raising an eyebrow and Jon flushed.

 

“Uncle Benjen will be angry,” said Jon softly after a moment.

 

“You are the Crown Prince,” Robb pointed out. “You can do whatever you like.”

 

“You’re a fool if you actually believe that,” bit Jon and Robb reeled back, surprised and hurt by the true vehemence in his words.

 

At the hurt expression on Robb’s face, Jon softened and said, “I’m sorry. It's just—being reminded that I'm the Crown Prince touches a nerve in me, that's all.”

 

Robb had already forgiven him. He nodded and said, “I understand. And we won't be here long, I just wanted to kiss you beneath a heart tree, like the first time.”

 

Jon quirked a smile. “Oh, really?” He said, teasing.

 

Robb nodded, smiling at him.

 

“Well, why didn't you just say so,” Jon swung off his horse and stalked towards Robb.

 

Robb took one of Jon’s gloved hands in his and pulled him close. He nudged his ice cold nose with Jon’s and their faces both crinkled into warm, soft smiles. 

 

“My guards will be here soon,” Jon whispered. They could both hear the sounds of horses in the distance.

 

“Then let's make the most of the time we have,” Robb whispered back, then he leaned down and captured Jon’s lips with his, their eyes fluttering closed.

 

“ _ Mhmm _ ,” Jon moaned when Robb licked his tongue into his mouth, tasting.

 

Their heads twisted back and forth as they kissed, neither of them wanting to ever pull away, but eventually they had to so they could breath. Robb saw something white fall on Jon’s eyelash as they pulled away, and he blinked. Another piece of white fell and landed on Jon’s black sable cloak, then another, and another.

 

They both looked up and saw that the sky was raining down snow, light and fluffy. Jon laughed, full of warmth and mirth, and held out a hand as if to touch it. Robb was entranced.

 

“It's magical!” Jon said, breathless. His violet eyes were alight with wonder and Robb wanted to get lost in them forever.

 

“Yes, you are,” Robb blurted out and Jon’s face snapped to look at him, Robb’s face burning as red as the hair on his head.

 

Suddenly, the wind took a turn and the snow started to fall harsher, and stronger. Before they knew what was happening, the wind was whipping at their faces and the snow was falling so thick and heavy they could barely see three feet in front of them. They could no longer hear the sounds of hooves approaching.

 

“We have to get back!” Jon said. “It isn't safe!”

 

“Right,” Robb nodded and he made to mount his horse, but when he approached it, it made like it spooked and galloped off, kicking up the heavy snow in its wake.

 

“It's okay,” said Jon. “We can both use mine.” But the same thing happened. Jon’s trusty horse, who he'd told Robb he’d had since his tenth nameday, suddenly reared up and almost trampled him with its great black hooves before joining Robb’s horse.

 

_ We’re fucked _ was the first thought that came to Robb’s mind but he tried to push it away.

 

Instead he yelled through the snow, “We’ll have to walk back! They shouldn't be far!”

 

Jon had a intense look in his eye but he nodded and allowed Robb to lead the way. They held hands, afraid that if they didn't keep ahold of one another, they’d lose each other in the snow.

 

They trudged through the thick snowfall, Robb thinking that he knew the way back, but the snow was so heavy it was hard to tell. He tried aiming for South, confident that the forest would eventually thin out and they'd see the Wall, but it never did. In fact, the forest seemed to get deeper, denser. The trees were huddled in closer now and the branches were crisscrossed over one another so that the sun couldn't pass through even if it was out.

 

It wasn't.

 

As soon as the snow had begun to fall the sun had disappeared underneath a thick range of clouds and hadn't reappeared. The world was cast in a cold, grey light and Robb was shivering in his boots.

 

“I think we are heading the wrong way!” Jon shouted.

 

“No, it has to be this way!” Robb shouted behind his shoulder. “I just went in the opposite direction of the heart tree!”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Yes, I'm sure!” 

 

He wasn't.

 

They walked and they walked, the snow falling so heavy and hard that soon they were up to their knees in it. They could barely walk now, just a shuffle through the thick fallen snow. 

 

Robb’s stomach began to rumble and the chill was starting to settle into his bones, making him chatter his teeth. He willed himself to be warm and think of nice, hot fires and a bath that he would be sharing with Jon once they reached the Wall, but the deeper and deeper they seemed to go into the forest, the farther away his dream felt.

 

“I think we are going the wrong way!” He shouted to Jon.

 

Jon was deadpan and not amused in the slightest. “No jest,” he said.

 

“Let's turn around!”

 

“No, let's go that way!” Jon pointed to the West.

 

“No, that will only take us deeper into the forest!”

 

“No, it won't!” 

 

“Yes, it will!”

 

They were so caught up in their argument that they didn't notice something swift and silent moving through the trees. 

 

Something  _ other.  _

 

Robb was in the middle of telling Jon just  _ exactly  _ why he wrong and why he should listen to him, when Jon’s face suddenly went as white as a ghost. His violet eyes grew wide with fear, something that did not suit him at all, and something that Robb felt was not common on his face.

 

Robb stopped short. “What?” He demanded.

 

Jon looked like he was trying to speak but no words came out. Instead, he lifted a shaky gloved finger behind Robb. Suddenly, Robb felt a chill that cut deeper than snow. The whole world was still as his breath came out in short puffs. His heart pounded in his chest and he slowly turned around, as if he were facing the gallows. 

 

There, standing a few feet before them, was an  _ Other _ .

 

A White Walker.

 

It was tall and gaunt, hard as old bones, pale as milk. Robb felt the air gust out of him like wind and his heart stopped. He stood there, frozen in the snow, as the White Walker slid forward on silent feet, his pale white hand wrapped around a longsword the likes of which Robb had never seen.

 

Nothing human had gone into the making of that sword. It was translucent, a shard of crystal that looked like ice, with a faint blue shimmer. Robb knew without a doubt, that it was sharper than any razor.

 

Robb didn't know how he found the courage to draw his blade, but he did, holding it front of him, willing his hands to stop shaking.

 

“Don't come any closer,” he said as he angled his body protectively in front of Jon’s, cursing at the way his voice wavered with uncharted fear.

 

The White Walker continued to slither forward, the brilliant bright blue of his eyes honing in on the two. Robb knew what he had to do. 

 

He had to protect Jon. 

 

He stepped forward, his sword held aloft and met the White Walker bravely. 

 

Jon finally found his voice. “Robb, no!” He choked out, but Robb ignored him.

 

Jon was the Crown Prince of Westeros. It was Robb’s solemn duty to protect him, and if need be, die for him. Robb felt as though it was the greatest honor the Gods could bestow upon him, greater than any lordship. 

 

He knew in that moment, as he met the White Walker in the snow, that he would gladly die for Jon, if it meant that he could live.

 

The White Walker regarded him with cold eyes, no warmth in them at all. Robb thought there probably never was. He raised his longsword and Robb raised his and together they met each other.

 

When Robb’s steel blade connected with the Other’s, it made such a noise that Robb almost faltered and winced. It sounded like an animal screaming in pain, not the usual sound of metal hitting metal.

 

Robb checked a blow, then another, and then another, faltering back a step. He met him again and the Other pushed forward, Robb stumbled backward. He caught himself before he fell to the ground. To fall, would mean his death, and then Jon would be all alone to defend himself.

 

Robb swung his sword again but the Other stepped back, and Robb swung at empty air. Before he could recover, the Other sent him reeling to the ground with a well-placed fist in his chest. Robb gasped for breath in the snow. The Other’s blow felt like an anvil.

 

He looked up and saw the Other raise his monstrous longsword, ready to strike a deadly blow while Robb was down, when Jon suddenly yelled out.

 

“NO!” He screamed and jumped in front of Robb, his own sword meeting the Other’s and blocking him.

 

This time there was no scream.

 

Robb could swear he saw something akin to confusion on the Other’s face before it quickly recovered and struck at Jon. Jon met him with a parry of his own and soon they were entangled in a dance, Robb forgotten in the snow for the time being.

 

Jon was good. 

 

Really good.

 

But the Other was better, and Robb watched with horrified eyes as one of Jon’s parries came a beat too late and the Other stabbed at him, right in the side. 

 

“NO!” Robb screamed, and he scrambled to get to his feet.

 

Jon cried out and clutched at his bleeding side, about to fall over into the snow, but under sheer force of will, he stayed upright. Robb saw him grit his teeth and meet the another one of the Other’s blows, catching him off guard.

 

Robb watched, amazed, as Jon took advantage of the Other’s confusion and slashed at him through the sternum. 

 

The Other exploded into ice.

 

Jon breathed heavily, clutching at his side, his glove soaked in blood, when he suddenly collapsed to the snow, it quickly painted red.

 

“Jon!” Robb yelled and he ran to him. 

 

Jon was unconscious, he was losing a lot of blood. The snow was soaked in it, pooling around him. 

 

Robb pressed his hands to Jon’s side, and tried to stop the bleeding. It was coming in thick gushes all over his gloves and soon they were soaked through. He reached up under Jon’s leather and ripped at his undershirt until it came loose. He tore it up until it was one long piece of fabric and tied it securely around Jon’s middle, praying reverently to the Old Gods and the New that the blood would stop.

 

Robb had to get them out of there. There was no telling how many more Others there were or if they'd come seeking retribution for the brother they'd lost. He grit his teeth and stood up, leaning over to heave Jon over his shoulder, stomach facing up.

 

He was heavier than he looked, but Robb was broad and strong, so he pushed onward. He walked in the opposite direction of the where the Other had come from, thinking hopefully that he was going in the direction they'd came.

 

He trudged on with Jon on his shoulder, thigh deep in snow, and it didn't seem likely to be stopping anytime soon. 

 

He was freezing. His nose was like an icicle and his cheeks felt ruddy from the wind as it whipped harshly against his face. His teeth were chattering obnoxiously in his mouth and his arm was going dead from holding Jon up, but he had to keep moving. 

 

He couldn't stop, he couldn't.

 

He had failed Jon once, he wasn't going to fail him again.

 

As he walked, he tried to think of happy things to keep himself warm, like Jon’s smile or Grey Wind’s fur, or the look of pride on his Father’s face when he bested his first man in sword training. But the further and further he walked, the muddier his mind became, until just forming a thought felt like wading through a sea of molasses.

 

Every once and awhile he thought how nice it would be if he just laid down in the snow, closed his eyes and rested for a bit, but he pressed on, knowing that that would mean their death.

 

Robb didn't know whether night was falling in, for the sun had disappeared so long ago. He walked and he walked, his legs protesting, his arm pleading for him to give up, just  _ give up _ !

 

But he didn't. 

 

He  _ wouldn't. _

 

He walked until he felt there was no where else to walk, his legs just about to give up on him and make him sit, when he saw something in the distance that gave him hope.

 

It was a warm light, emanating through the trees. 

 

A fire!

 

A fire meant people and people meant that he and Jon could be saved, if Jon was still alive that was.

 

He didn't even care at that point if they were wildings, they were just people to him.

 

He trudged through the snow, coming closer and closer to the warmth. Whoever had started the fire must have heard him approaching, for he wasn't being quiet in the slightest. No, he abandoned that more than three to four hours ago. 

 

He heard the sound of a bow being drawn and then this voice broke through the wind, saying, “Who goes there?”

 

Robb collapsed to the ground with relief, Jon tumbling off his shoulder and landing in the snow. The makeshift bandage around his stomach was soaked through with blood, but Robb was pleased to note that he was still breathing.

 

_ Barely _ .

 

“Please,” Robb whispered, the tears rolling down his cheeks as he looked up at the person who held the bow on him. He couldn't see their face, his eyes were practically glued shut for the ice. “Please save him. Please.  _ I l-- _ .”

 

Before he could finish his thought, he collapsed face first into the snow with exhaustion, and everything went dark.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Just wow. 
> 
> I really appreciate all these comments and kudos, I never in a million years imagined it would get like this! Just wow. 
> 
> Thank you guys so much:)


	19. SANSA II

**SANSA II**

 

Sansa stood in the Great Hall, clutching her woolen lavender skirts with excitement. She stood next to Arya and Bran, and their Father beside her, down below the monstrous Iron Throne. Opposite them stood Prince Aegon, Princess Rhaenys, and Princess Visenya, all of them looking very much the part as the royal children. 

 

The King sat atop the Iron Throne, his silver hair flowing down his shoulders in waves, his silver circlet adorning his head. Rumors were that he had it fashioned in the style of Aegon the Conqueror's, and that thought alone made Sansa nearly swoon with delight. Down beside him, on her own special throne, where the arms were carved into direwolves’ heads, like the old throne in Winterfell, sat his Queen. 

 

She had one hand on the arm of her throne and one hand resting on her belly. It was official, the Queen was with child again, much to roar of the Capital when the news had spread.

 

Sansa’s Aunt Lyanna looked radiant; pregnancy suited her. Her long, raven black hair was pulled away from her face in an elegant style, her silver crown with the welded blue winter roses situated upon it nicely. Her ice blue eyes were cold though as they were trained on the doors that led into the throne room, and, looking up into her Father’s face, so were his.

 

Sansa knew why. Arya had whispered to her last night about what she had heard while milling about the castle. Sansa had scolded her for eavesdropping but didn't stop her from telling what she had heard. 

 

A long time ago, before Sansa or Arya, or any of the Stark children had come into the world, their Aunt Lyanna was betrothed to Robert Baratheon, now Lord of Storm’s End. Before their marriage could come to fruition, however, the Mad King suddenly had their betrothal broken off and he arranged for Robert to marry Cersei, of House Lannister. Arya whispered that Robert had raged like a storm when it was announced that Lyanna would marry Rhaegar, who was newly widowed. He'd never gotten over his love for their Aunt, Arya had said. And now, he was coming here, with his wife and his youngest brother, and the Lannister clan.

 

_ And Joffrey _ thought Sansa dreamily.

 

Suddenly, the great doors to the throne room swung open and all eyes turned to the people who came striding through the door, as the heralder announced:

 

“Announcing Lord Robert of the House Baratheon and his wife, Lady Cersei of the House Lannister, with their children Gendry, Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen.”

 

Sansa’s eyes went wide as she took in the sight of the once legendary Robert Baratheon. In her Father’s stories, he was broad, strong, and handsome, with curly black hair and fierce blue eyes. Looking at him now, you’d think he was a different person. He was fat, with a huge wine gut, and his face was pudgy and ruddy. He looked angry as he strode down the hall towards the throne, his arm in his lady wife’s, Cersei.

 

Cersei, however, was just as she was described. Beautiful and elegant in every way, with long flowing golden hair and sparkling emerald green eyes that looked to the throne with something akin to passion in them. Unlike her husband, who was wearing the Baratheon colors of black and yellow, she was wearing her Lannister red and gold proudly, a lion embroidered on her dress for all the court to see.

 

Behind them walked their children. The first was Gendry, Sansa had to guess, and he looked every bit like his Father, at least when he was young. He had a nice, handsome face, though very solemn, and beautiful blue eyes. He was tall, broad and muscular, and if Sansa wasn't already betrothed to Joffrey, then her heart would have fluttered for him.

 

Next to Gendry, Sansa looked with absolute glee, was her betrothed, her beloved  _ Joffrey _ . He was absolutely gorgeous, with his Mother’s golden hair that flowed down to his shoulders and eyes the color of the brightest emeralds. He, like his Mother, was dressed in Lannister red and was almost strutting as he walked towards the throne.

 

Beside him were his two youngest siblings, Myrcella and Tommen. They too had their Mother’s coloring and wore the Lannister red. Only their eldest brother wore the colors of their House. 

 

The herald spoke again: “Announcing Renly of the House Baratheon and his wife, Lady Margaery of House Tyrell.”

 

Sansa tore her eyes away from Joffrey to get a good look at Robert’s youngest brother and his bride. They were both exceedingly gorgeous. Renly with his long black hair and striking blue eyes, swathed in green, like his beautiful wife. She was but a maid of sixteen, and, if the rumors were true, still unbedded by her husband, but Sansa didn't like to listen to such gossip about someone so fair.

 

The herald spoke for the last time: “Announcing Lord Tywin of House Lannister and his sons, Ser Jaime and Tyrion.”

 

Lord Tywin was most likely one of the most stern men Sansa had ever seen, with a hard face and those Lannister green eyes. He strode towards the Throne with his held high and proud, like his daughter. Behind him, his son Jaime, was the most handsome out of all the men who stood before the Throne, barring Joffrey. His golden hair positively gleamed as the sun’s rays shone upon it through the high windows and he was as proud as his Father and sister. Then there was his brother.

 

If Jaime was the most handsome out of all the men before the Iron Throne, then Tyrion was the ugliest, thought Sansa. He was a short little man, a dwarf, with stunted legs and arms. He walked awkwardly towards the Throne and had one green eye and one black. His hair was the only thing Lannister about him, golden and shiny.

 

Sansa darted her eyes away from the Imp, as he was called, and looked back at Joffrey.

 

_ He's staring right at me! _ Sansa screamed internally.

 

She smiled demurely at him and knew she was blushing a bright pink. He grinned back at her and winked, causing her blush to deepen further.

 

She was broken out of her reverie when all the lords and ladies that stood before the Iron Throne of Lannister, Baratheon, and Tyrell, bowed before their King.

 

“Your Grace,” they all said, an echo of voices in the cavernous hall.

 

“Please,” spoke Rhaegar, waving his hand. “You may stand. I am delighted to have you all here, to celebrate the wedding of my daughter Rhaenys and Ser Jaime. I pray that your stay in King’s Landing will be a happy one for all!”

 

_ He's such a good King _ thought Sansa admiringly.

 

She missed the way Lord Robert’s eyes never strayed from her Aunt Lyanna, who was clutching the arm to her throne so tight her knuckles turned white.

 

The King soon took his leave after the introductions were made, taking care to help his Queen out of her throne. The court parted like the sea as they walked arm in arm down the hall, all eyes on them but they only had eyes for each other.

 

Sansa thought it very romantic, the makings of a song. 

 

_ The Dragon and the Wolf _ she thought.

 

As soon as the doors shut and the King and Queen were gone, the Throne room erupted into chatter. Sansa saw Arya slip away into the throngs of people, not even bothering to ask her Father for permission.

 

Lord Robert came thundering up then to their Father and clasped him on the shoulder, hard.

 

“Seven Hells, Ned,” he said in a rough voice. “You? Hand of the bloody King? I nearly pissed meself laughing when I read the raven!”

 

Ned cracked an uneasy smile and said, “It is a great hon—”

 

“Bugger honor!” thundered Robert and Sansa looked at him, shocked at such a thing.

 

Robert slung a heavy arm over her Father’s shoulder and pulled him away, whispering low, though Sansa managed to catch a few words: 

 

“—as beautiful as the day I met her—”

 

She was broken out of her eavesdropping when, her heart suddenly stopped, Joffrey came up to her and gave a bow. Behind him was a large man, dressed in mail, with one half of his face burned. He was a scary thing.

 

“My lady,” said Joffrey charmingly.

 

Sansa curtsied deeply, and tried to take her eyes of the man behind him.

 

“Would you care to take a stroll with me?” He asked, holding out a red covered arm.

 

Sansa blushed. “I would, thank you.” She took his offered arm but threw a glance at the man behind him again.

 

Joffrey noticed and said, “Does the Hound frighten you, my Lady?”

 

Sansa didn't say a word but her fear must have been written on her face for he turned to the Hound and said, “Away with you,  _ dog _ . You’re frightening my betrothed.” The Hound nodded his head and turned away.

 

Sansa and Joffrey then strolled out of the throne room, Sansa’s arm in his, after Joffrey gave the Throne a long, odd glance. 

 

They walked out the back and into the beautiful gardens. Sansa admired the different flowers as they walked and talked.

 

Joffrey was very charming. He asked her all about her life in the North and her siblings, and about what she thought of the Capital. He even picked a rose from the garden and handed it to her, saying, “This is but a poor substitute for your beauty, Lady Sansa.”

 

Sansa blushed a bright red and took the flower, smelling the wonderful scent. They walked through the garden and opened the gate into the godswood. Sansa was embarrassed to admit that she hadn't seen it yet, although her Father visited it almost everyday.

 

Joffrey laughed, a brilliant sound, and he took her hand in his, leading her inside. Immediately their ears were assailed with the sound of wood hitting wood. 

 

“What’s this?” Joffrey asked and they went to investigate.

 

There, before the great oak which substituted as a heart tree, were Arya and the butcher’s boy, Mycah, playing at knights with wooden swords. The butcher’s boy was many years older than Arya, a head taller, and much stronger, so he was pressing the attack.

 

Joffrey laughed and Arya spun around, looking at them. While she was distracted, the butcher's boy smacked her on the knuckles and she cried out, her weapon falling from her hand.

 

“ _ Arya! _ ” Sansa cried out incredulously.

 

“Go away!” Arya shouted back, angry tears in her eyes. “What are you doing here? Leave us alone.”

 

Joffrey glanced from Arya to Sansa and back again. “Your sister?”

 

She nodded, blushing fiercely.

 

Joffrey examined the boy, an ungainly lad with a coarse, freckled face and thick red hair. “And who are you, boy?” He asked in a commanding tone that took no notice of the fact that the boy was a year his senior.

 

“Mycah,” the boy muttered.

 

“He's the butcher’s boy,” Sansa said.

 

“He's my friend,” Arya said sharply. “You leave him alone.”

 

“A butcher’s boy who wants to be a knight, eh?” Joffrey drew his sword at his side, called Lion’s Tooth. “Pick up your sword, butcher’s boy,” he said, his eyes bright with amusement. “Let us see how good you are.”

 

Mycah stood there, frozen with fear. 

 

Joffrey walked towards him. “Go on, pick it up. Or do you only fight little girls?”

 

“She ast me to, m’lord,” said Mycah. “She ast me to.”

 

Sansa had only to glance at her sister’s flushed face to know that the boy was telling the truth, but Joffrey was in no mood to listen. “Are you going to pick up your sword?”

 

Mycah shook his head. “It's only a wooden sword, m’lord. It's only wooden.”

 

“And you’re only a butcher’s boy, and no knight.” Joffrey lifted Lion’s Tooth and laid the point on Mycah’s cheek, just below the eye, as the butcher's boy stood trembling.

 

Sansa was utterly shocked by his behavior. This was not how someone in the songs would act! Her heart told her to do something,  _ anything _ , but she didn't know what.

 

“That was my lady’s sister you were hitting, do you know that?” A bud of blood blossomed where his sword pressed into Mycah’s flesh, and slow red line trickled down the boy’s cheek.

 

“ _ Stop it!” _ Arya screamed and picked up her wooden sword.

 

“I won't hurt him...much,” said Joffrey to Arya, never taking his eyes off the butcher’s boy.

 

Arya went for him.

 

Sansa tried to stop her but she was too slow. Arya swung her sword with an odd sort of expert precision and there was a loud  _ crack  _ as the wood smacked against the back of Joffrey’s head. Sansa watched everything happen as if in slow motion, Joffrey staggering and roaring curses, wheeling around. Mycah ran as fast as his legs could carry him out of the godswood. 

 

Arya swung at Joffrey again, but this time he caught the blow with Lion’s Tooth and sent the wooden sword from her hands. The back of his head was bloody and his eyes were a fire.

 

Sansa started shrieking, “No, no, stop it! Stop it both of you, you’re spoiling everything!” But no one was listening.

 

Arya scooped up a rock and hurled it at Joffrey’s head but missed, it whirling behind him into the trees of the godswood.

 

Joffrey slashed at Arya with his sword, screaming filthy, filthy words. Arya darted back, fearful now, but Joffrey followed and hounded her against one of the trees. Sansa didn't know what to do.

 

Then a grey blur flashed past her, and suddenly Nymeria was there, leaping, jaws closing around Joffrey’s sword arm. The steel fell from his fingers as the wolf knocked him off his feet, and they rolled around in the grass, the wolf snarling and ripping at him, Joffrey screaming in pain.

 

“ _ Get it off!”  _ He shrieked. “ _ Get it off! _ ”

 

Arya’s voice cracked like a whip, “ _ Nymeria! _ ”

 

The direwolf let go of Joffrey and moved to Arya’s side. Joffrey lay in the grass, whimpering, cradling his mangled arm. His tunic was soaked with blood.

 

Arya said, “She didn't hurt you...much.” She picked up Lion’s Tooth where it had fallen and stood over him, holding the sword with one hand.

 

Joffrey made a scared, whimpery sound as he looked up at her. “No,” he said, “don't hurt me. I'll tell my Mother.”

 

Arya whirled and heaved the sword in the air, putting her whole body into the throw. The blue steel was flung amongst the trees in the godswood and disappeared behind a thorny thistle. Then, she and Nymeria took off running out of the godswood.

 

Sansa stood there shocked for a moment. She couldn't believe what she just saw. Why did Joffrey threaten the butcher’s boy? And it looked like he was considering hurting her sister.

 

After a moment’s deliberation, Sansa went and knelt down beside Joffrey. She thought she still needed to treat him as a lady does and make sure he was alright.

 

“Joffrey?” She asked, tentatively reaching out a hand to brush a stray lock of golden hair away from his face. He jerked out of her touch as if she'd slapped him, but Sansa pressed on. “Do I need to call the guards and the Maester?”

 

“Yes, you stupid girl!” He snapped at her. Then his face grew panicked and he said, “My Mother will have this brought before the King. He’ll want to know what happened. You’ll tell them you saw Arya and that butcher’s boy attack me, right?”

 

Sansa was shocked. He wanted her to lie for him, in front of the King. That was a terrible crime to commit and Sansa was no criminal. “But they didn't…” she said slowly. “You hurt the butcher’s boy. Why did you do that?”

 

“What does it matter?” He snapped. “You’re  _ my  _ betrothed, so you have to take  _ my  _ side. You’ll  _ tell _ them that the butcher's boy and your  _ cunt  _ of a sister attacked me!”

 

Sansa was firm. “No, I won't.”

 

Then Joffrey did the most terrible thing. He reeled back his good hand and slapped her hard against her cheek, sending her face to snap to the side from the force.

 

She tasted blood.


	20. RHAEGAR I

**RHAEGAR I**

 

The quiet never seemed to last in the Red Keep.

Rhaegar was musing over important documents of state, with his Queen lounging in their four-poster featherbed, her hand stroking her stomach lightly. 

Lyanna never seemed to have easy pregnancies. With Jon, she lost too much blood and almost died had Rhaegar not insisted that they give her some of his blood, which wound up saving her life. Rhaegar was so frightened that would happen again, so they did not try for a long time, until one day Lyanna  _ forgot _ to take her moon tea and was soon with their second child, Visenya. 

The second time was a little bit easier, there was hardly that much blood but Rhaegar still loathed to take any chances. As soon as he heard from Lyanna that she was with child again, he took extra care in having her take as much bed rest as he commanded as long as other things. Lyanna had pouted but understood his concern.

There was an urgent knock at their chamber, breaking Rhaegar out of his studies.

“Your Grace, please,” said a voice from beyond the door. “It's urgent!”

Rhaegar shared a look with his wife before bidding the man to come inside. The man was panting, it looked as if he'd been running.

“Lord Robert’s son,” panted the serving man, “has been bitten by one of the Stark girls direwolves.”

Lyanna sat up. “What?” She asked, incredulous.

“Which son?” asked Rhaegar, pushing away from his desk and setting down his papers.

“Joffrey, Your Grace.”

Rhaegar and Lyanna exchanged another look. They knew without a doubt that Joffrey would not have been bitten had he not provoked the direwolf. The Stark children’s direwolves were actually quite tame, unless you threatened their owners.

“Which direwolf was it?” Lyanna asked.

“The youngest girl’s, Arya, Your Grace. She fled the scene with her direwolf after it happened. Lady Cersei is demanding retribution.”

“Gods,” Lyanna slid out of bed and slipped on her slippers. 

“What are you doing, my love?” Rhaegar asked her.

“Going to find Arya,” she said, sliding into her silver dressing gown and quickly braiding her hair away from her face.

“My love, you ca—”

“I  _ can _ , and I  _ must _ ,” said Lyanna fiercely, turning her ice blue eyes on him. For a moment, Rhaegar thought he felt a chill pass through the warm room. “The poor thing must be frightened. She might do something stupid with her direwolf, like send her away, thinking you might have it killed.”

“I won't,” Rhaegar insisted. “I'm sure it's all been some kind of misunderstanding.”

“I know that,” said Lyanna. “But she doesn't.” She turned to the serving man who stood to attention. “Where there any witnesses to the attack?”

“One, Your Grace. Arya’s sister, Sansa.”

Rhaegar nodded his head. “Very well. Call forth Ned and his daughter, Sansa to the Throne Room, as well as the Lord Baratheon and his wife and their son. I want to hear the full story.”

The serving man bowed and took his leave. Lyanna turned to Rhaegar and said, “I'll bring Arya as soon as I find her. I wish to assuage her fears.”

“The girl has nothing to be frightened of,” said Rhaegar. “I'll bet you anything it was Joffrey who provoked the attack, he was always said to be a cruel boy.”

Lyanna nodded seriously. “After this,” she said. “I wish to have a long talk with my brother about Sansa’s betrothal.”

“Aye,” said Rhaegar gravely. 

He kissed her upon the brow, then sent her on her way, both of them going in a different direction. Rhaegar strode out of Maegor’s Holdfast, over the dry moat, across the lower bailey and up the serpentine steps. 

His Kingsguard followed him dutifully, Ser Arthur leading the way. They entered the Throne Room and Rhaegar climbed the Iron Throne, feeling the jagged edges, although not entirely uncomfortable as he sat down.

All too soon, they were brought before him. Ned and his daughter, both of whom looked distraught, and Lord Baratheon and his wife and second son, all of whom looked angry. Joffrey had a bandage wrapped around his arm, it was cradled in a sling.

Rhaegar took a moment to assess Sansa. Her eyes were red from crying and there was a red mark on her cheek. Rhaegar knew that Ned wasn't the type of person to strike someone, so he wondered who did it. He saw the way Sansa didn't even glance in Joffrey’s direction, a big change from earlier that day in that very Throne Room.

“I have called you all here to address the situation that occurred today,” said Rhaegar. “I want the full story, no half-truths will be permitted, understood?”

Ned spoke up, his voice wavering. “Your Grace, if I may, we still haven't found Arya. If I coul—”

Rhaegar held up a hand, silencing him. He smiled warmly down at Ned, to try and assuage some of his fears. “Do not fret, Lord Stark. I have the best people looking for your daughter and I promise you, no harm will come to her.”

Ned nodded and bowed his head humbly.

“Now,” said Rhaegar, straightening up in his chair. “You, Joffrey, come forward.”

Joffrey glanced at his Mother, who nodded, then stepped before the Throne. Rhaegar didn't like the way he was eyeing the Throne, as if he wished to be the one sitting upon it and not Rhaegar.

“Tell me what happened.”

Joffrey told them what happened, in vivid detail. How he was enjoying a nice stroll with his betrothed when they came upon Arya and the butcher’s boy, who proceeded to beat him with clubs and set her direwolf on him. The whole story sounded ridiculous and one look at Sansa’s face told Rhaegar all he needed to know. 

Rhaegar silenced the boy and turned to Sansa. “My lady, can you confirm his story?”

Sansa looked at him with wide blue eyes, something akin to fear in them. They kept darting back to Joffrey, who was staring her down intently. She finally found her voice, looking at the marbled floor.

“No, Your Grace,” she said quietly, not looking up.

Joffrey growled and took a step forward towards her and Sansa cowered into her Father’s arms, who sent Joffrey a glare that would freeze better men in their tracks, as it did for Joffrey.

Rhaegar waited until she stopped trembling and asked her to continue. “Arya and the butcher’s boy were playing at knight’s when Joffrey and I came upon them in the godswood, Your Grace,” she said. “Joffrey—he—he tormented the poor butcher’s boy and Arya got angry, so she smacked him across the back of the head with a wooden sword. He turned on her and slashed at her with his sword, Lion’s Tooth. I thought—I thought he was going to kill her!” She cried, her eyes becoming wet again. Joffrey and Cersei were both glaring at the girl, their glittering green eyes full of hate. “That's when Nymeria jumped in, Your Grace. She was only trying to protect Arya, please don't punish her!”

Rhaegar held up a hand and silenced her. “Hush child. I'm not going harm your sister or her direwolf.”

Cersei was enraged. “My son has been  _ ravaged  _ by this beast! I want its pelt!” Her golden hair flew about her as she spit her venom. She may have been a lion, but she might as well have been a viper for the venom she spewed.

Rhaegar fixed her with a cold stare. “I think what you need, Lady Cersei, is to teach your boy some manners. Attacking a child like that and tormenting the butcher's boy, do you think that an honorable and noble thing to do?”

“So, you believe the Stark girl over my son?”

“I have no reason not to.”

At that moment, the Throne Room doors swung open and little Arya came dashing down the hall, towards her Father who gathered her into his arms. Rhaegar spied his Queen being helped down the hall by Ser Barristan.

Arya was crying. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!”

Ned smoothed down her brown locks. “It's alright. It's alright.”

Rhaegar waited until Lyanna was on her throne and Arya had calmed down a bit, to ask for her side of the story.

As he suspected, it was the same as her sister’s, down to the very last detail. Having heard enough, Rhaegar said, “Well, it seems to me that honor lives on in the Stark children and that their direwolves would do anything to protect their own, you'd do best to remember that, boy.” Joffrey flushed an angry red.

“Lord Baratheon,” said Rhaegar. He had been very quiet through this whole ordeal, which was quite unusual for him. “I trust that you will see to it that your boy will be  properly disciplined?”

Robert looked up and met Rhaegar’s eyes. They were full of loathing, though that was nothing new. Robert had looked at him like that ever since Rhaegar married Lyanna and always would, there would be no changing that.

“Of course, Your Grace,” he growled. He glared at his son, “I’ll whip him through the streets if that's what it takes.” Joffrey looked absolutely horrified by the idea.

Rhaegar nodded, not going to argue. “Well, I believe that will be all. You are all free to go back to your chambers.” He stood up and they all bowed, although some did it begrudgingly. 

He and Lyanna took their leave, allowing the Kingsguard to escort them back to the Holdfast. “Did you see the mark on Sansa’s face, my love?” asked Lyanna as they walked. “I'm sure it was that little beast who did it.”

Rhaegar nodded. He suspected the same.

“We really must call off the engagement, marry her to someone more suitable!”

“Aye, but would Robert permit it?”

“Fuck what Robert permits!” yelled Lyanna. “ _ You _ are the King,  _ your  _ word is law. If you wish for the engagement to be broken, then it shall be broken! Like your Father did for me.”

“Aye, and was my Father a good King...or even a good man?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so short!! But I wanted a Rhaegar chapter and I figured this would be the perfect time to do so!


	21. LYANNA III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay another chapter! I'm trying to space these out a little bit more, but I will still update quick, maybe just not AS quick

**LYANNA III**

 

Lyanna had been entertaining Sansa in her rooms when the raven came. 

 

Sansa had been looking down the past few days, still fretting over what had happened with Joffrey and the wolf. Lyanna had tried to speak with Ned and convince him to break off the engagement but he would do no such thing before speaking to Robert, who had refused. 

 

Her husband wasn't much better, unwilling to bring Robert’s wrath upon him if he broke the engagement anyways.

 

“What's a dragon to fear from a stag?” She had asked him. 

 

He had given no reply but the look in his eyes had silenced her, for now.

 

She gazed upon Sansa’s pretty face, the bruise on her cheek was healing nicely and would soon be gone in a few days. When Lyanna had asked her about it, Sansa said that she had smacked her face against a door that was swinging open, like a stupid little girl. Lyanna didn't believe her, but didn't push, trusting that she would tell her in her own time.

 

Lyanna pushed a tray of lemon cakes towards her. “Here, have one,” she said. She delighted in the way that Sansa’s face lit up and she took one in her pale hands. They sat before an open trellis with the sun shining in on them, bathing them in warm light. Green vines crept up the sides of the trellis, bringing in some of the greenery that livened up the place.

 

Lyanna motioned to one of her handmaids who bowed and grabbed a parcel that was sitting on her featherbed. She hadn't missed the way Sansa’s eyes had drifted to the package when she first entered her rooms and was excited to see what she thought.

 

“I have a gift for you, darling girl,” said Lyanna, as the handmaid handed her the parcel. Sansa swallowed her lemon cake and looked at it with light shining in her blue eyes.

 

Lyanna handed the parcel over to Sansa, who took it with reverent hands. At Lyanna’s urging, Sansa unwrapped the parcel, revealing a pale lavender dress, in the Southron style with the asymmetrical neckline and the billowing sleeves.

 

“I had the dressmakers make it special for you,” said Lyanna as Sansa stroked the cloth, her eyes full of wonder.

 

“It's  _ beautiful _ , Aunt Lyanna,” said Sansa. “Thank you.”

 

“You’re very welcome, dear girl,” said Lyanna, smiling happily. She was about to say more when a serving man came in, a rolled up piece of parchment in his hand.

 

“A raven,” he said, handing her the letter. “From the Wall.”

 

Lyanna’s heart dropped in her stomach and the smile on her face faded as she unraveled the parchment. Her eyes glanced over the words, reading them once, reading them twice, not really reading them at all. 

 

She stood up on wobbly legs from her chair, ignoring Sansa’s confused, “Aunt Lyanna? Is something wrong?” and turned to the serving man.

 

“Get my husband,” she said, trying her hardest not to let her voice waver. “Get the King immediately.”

 

“But, Your Grace, he's in a Small Council meet—”

 

“I SAID NOW, DAMN IT!” She roared and immediately regretted it. She had never,  _ ever  _ spoken to her servants like before. She always kind, always gentle, but the news she received from that raven was making her head turn on its axis. 

 

The room went still once those words were out of her mouth and Sansa looked at her, completely shocked. 

 

“F—forgive me, Romlyn. I'm not—I'm not feeling myself,” in fact she felt very faint. “I think I—I think I need to—” then Lyanna knew no more. The whole world had gone black.

 

When she came to, she was in her bed, the sheets pulled tight around her, with Rhaegar sitting at her feet, staring dead eyed at the letter the raven had sent. Lyanna felt her blood run cold, colder than it had ever been.

 

“Is it true?” she whispered, her voice very weak. 

 

Rhaegar startled and quickly put the letter away. “Lyanna,” he said. “My love, you’re awake. How are you feeling?” He took her hands in his and Lyanna wondered if her hands felt cold to him, like the chill that was settling over her heart.

 

Lyanna ignored him and asked again, her voice stronger this time. “Is it true?” Lyanna stared straight into his lavender eyes and watched as they wavered. Her lip began to quiver and she could feel tears in her eyes. “Is our baby boy gone?”

 

“They’ve yet to find him, or Robb,” said Rhaegar reluctantly. “But have strength, my love, he will be found and rescued.”

 

“Or he’ll be killed by wildings,” said Lyanna, looking off to the side. She could see it in her mind’s eye, her baby boy, her beautiful Jaehaerys, dead, bleeding out in the snow, with no one around to mourn him. “Or worse.”

 

“Don't talk like that.”

 

Lyanna snapped her face to his. “You,” she said, her voice full of anger. “You were the one who said he'd be safe up there! With the Old Bear, you said, and my brother! Where was my brother? He was not protecting my baby!” She was becoming increasingly stressed and her chest heaved as she struggled to stay calm.

 

“You need to calm down, my love. Stress is not good for the baby.”

 

“The baby?!” Lyanna jerked her hands out of his and wrenched herself out of the bed. “ _ This  _ baby,” she said rubbing a hand over her stomach, “is still in the womb, while our other baby is out there, beyond the Wall, most likely getting torn to pieces by wildlings or shadowcats!  _ Our  _ baby, Rhaegar! My son!” She started to break, her icy facade cracking into a million pieces as she began to sob in great heaves. 

 

Rhaegar stood up and took her into his arms, holding her against him no matter how hard she thrashed. 

 

“My baby!” She cried. “My beautiful baby boy!”

 

“I know, my love,” said Rhaegar, his own voice cracking with emotion. “I know.”

 

She stayed there in his arms and cried and cried. She cried for her son, her Jon, who had looked so handsome the day she left him at Winterfell. She had known then, somehow, that something was going to happen. She should have never let him go! She cried for the way he squalled when he was brought into this world, herself delirious with blood loss but so full of the love for the baby boy that she and Rhaegar had made. 

 

She cried until she felt there were no more tears to cry, that her well had finally dried up. Then, Rhaegar convinced her to get back into bed while he called for the Maester. 

 

Her eyes became distant and vacant as she waited for him to come back, her mind barraging her with all sorts of horrible thoughts of what was happening to her son. And when she tried to close her eyes, she still could not escape it.

 

Rhaegar came back and sat down with her again, his eyes wide with worry for her. “Lyanna?” He asked. “Lyanna, can you hear me?”

 

“If our baby boy is dead,” she said, her voice without emotion. “Then I wish to join him.”

 

Rhaegar grabbed her hands in a vice grip. “Don't say that, my love,” he pleaded. “What of our unborn child? What of Visenya? What of  _ me _ ?” His voice cracked. “If you died, I would have nothing.  _ Nothing _ .”

 

Lyanna said nothing, just waited until Maester Pycelle ambled along fast enough to administer the milk of the poppy like her husband requested. She drank the vial greedily, ignoring the worried looks from Rhaegar and the Maester. Within seconds, she was lulled into a blissful, dreamless sleep.


	22. CATELYN II

**CATELYN II**

 

It had been a long and hard journey South.

 

Catelyn left three days after receiving the letter from Lysa, with a small livery of guards and Ser Rodrik Cassel, all sworn to protect her on the kingsroad and beyond, through the mountain ranges of the Vale of Arryn. There were not enough men, however, for most of them had went far South with Ned.

 

Catelyn had left the running of Winterfell in the capable hands of Maester Luwin, knowing that Robb would return soon from the Wall and take up his duties as active Lord. Catelyn prayed that she would make it through her journey to see him rule.

 

It was a treacherous ride through the Vale of Arryn, even more dangerous it seemed than the kingsroad. Catelyn made sure they traveled slowly, lest they pick up on the trail of the King’s party who had only been gone from Winterfell two weeks by the time she had left. She didn't want anyone to know she was leaving, least of all her lord husband.

 

They were attacked by mountain clansmen two times as they picked their way carefully through the Vale and lost twelve good men in the fights. Catelyn was so determined to get to the Eyrie that she didn't even shed a single tear for them or bother to remember their names. Her mind was elsewhere.

 

They finally made it to the Bloody Gate with eight men left, including her and Ser Rodrik, who was tied to his saddle to keep from falling off his horse with the wounds he had sustained in battle. They were greeted by Ser Bryden “the Blackfish” Tully, a most welcome sight to Catelyn. 

 

Bryden was Catelyn’s Uncle and she loved him so. It had been a long time since they had seen one another.

 

“Does Lysa know you are coming?” He had asked her once the introductions were made, removing his helm and revealing his face. It was lined with the years, but was still the same as Cat remembered when she was girl, with his laughing blue eyes.

 

“There was no time to send word ahead,” Catelyn had said. “May we enter?”

 

“In the name of Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Protector of the Vale, True Warden of the East, I bid you enter freely, and charge you to keep his peace,” Ser Bryden replied. “Come.”

 

She rode beneath the shadow of the Bloody Gate, where a dozen armies had dashed themselves to pieces in the Age of Heroes. On the far side of the stoneworks, the mountains opened up suddenly upon a vista of green fields, blue sky, and snowcapped mountains that took her breath away. The Vale of Arryn bathed in the morning light.

 

It would have taken another day's ride up towards the Eyrie, first on mules, then by foot, but Lysa had heard word of her sister’s arrival and demanded she come at once,  _ alone _ . She sent a bastard girl of seventeen or eighteen years old, named Mya Stone, to lead her up the steep pass.

 

Her Uncle was not pleased but was forced to do as Lysa commanded, so he let Cat go with Mya. On their travel upwards, Cat talked with Mya and found out that she had a love, sounding much like her daughter Sansa as she sighed the name, “Mychel Redfort.”

 

Catelyn was tinged with sadness for the girl. Mya was only a bastard and Redfort was a very old family of the Vale, with the blood of the First Men running through their veins. Mya would never marry Redfort, no matter how much they loved each other.

 

The sun was well above the mountains by the time Catelyn Stark finally reached the Eyrie. A stocky, silver-haired man in a sky-blue breastplate helped her from the basket in which she rode in the last part of the journey. He was Ser Vardis Egen, captain of Jon Arryn’s household guard. Beside him stood Maester Colemon, thin and nervous, with too little hair and too much neck. “Lady Stark,” Ser Vardis said, “the pleasure is as great as it is unanticipated.” Maester Colemon bobbed his head in agreement. “Indeed it is, my lady, indeed it is. I have sent word to your sister. She left orders to be awakened the instant you arrived.”

 

“I hope she had a good night’s rest,” Catelyn said with a certain bite in her tone that seemed to go unnoticed.

 

The men escorted her from the winch room up a spiral stair. The Eyrie was a small castle by the standards of the great houses; seven slender white towers bunched as tightly as arrows in a quiver on a shoulder of the great mountain. It had no need of stables nor smithys nor kennels, but Ned said it's granary was as large as Winterfell’s, and its towers could house five hundred men. Yet it seemed strangely deserted to Catelyn as she passed through it, its pale stone halls echoing and empty.

 

Lysa was waiting alone in her solar, still clad in her bed robes. Her long auburn hair tumbled unbound across bare white shoulders and down her back. A maid stood behind her, brushing out the night’s tangles, but when Catelyn entered, her sister rose to her feet, smiling. “Cat,” she said. “Oh, Cat, how good it is to see you. My sweet sister.” She ran across the chamber and wrapped her sister in her arms. “How long it has been,” Lysa murmured against her. “Oh, how very very long.”

 

It had been five years, in truth; five cruel years, for Lysa. They had taken their toll. Her sister was two years younger, yet she looked older now. Shorter than Catelyn, Lysa had grown thick of body, pale and puffy of face. She had the blue eyes of the Tully’s, but hers were pale and watery, never still. Her small mouth had turned petulant. As Catelyn held her, she remembered the beautiful girl of their youth. Small and lovely, so full of hope. All that remained of her sister’s beauty was the great fall of thick auburn hair that cascaded down to her waist.

 

“You look well,” Catelyn lied, “but...tired.”

 

Her sister broke the embrace. “Tired. Yes. Oh, yes.” She seemed to notice the others then; her maid, Maester Colemon, Ser Vardis. “Leave us,” she told them. “I wish to speak to my sister alone.” She held Catelyn’s hand as they withdrew…

 

...and dropped it the instant the door was closed. Catelyn saw her face change. It was if the sun had gone behind the clouds. “Have you taken leave of your  _ senses? _ ” Lysa snapped at her. “To come  _ here _ , leaving Winterfell behind, after that letter I sent you? What if your husband finds out? What if the  _ dragons  _ find out?”

 

“I had to speak with you,” said Catelyn. “ _ In person _ . What makes you say the Targaryens murdered your husband?”

 

Lysa looked away and picked up the brush that the maid had sat down when she had taken her leave. She resumed brushing her hair, answering after the brush ran through her auburn locks. 

 

“You know the quarrels of the dragon and the stag,” she said. “My lord husband fostered the stag. Mayhaps he wanted revenge, mayhaps he’s as mad as his Father was.”

 

“Mayhaps you’re the one who is mad,” snapped Catelyn. “The King was nothing but gracious and kind to my family, and to your husband. There is no reason on this good earth that he would want to kill him.”

 

Lysa paused in her brushing and turned to face her sister. “If you think that, then why are you here?”

 

“I had to see you for myself,” said Catelyn. “I had to know if you were as mad as your letter.”

 

“And?”

 

“King Rhaegar is  _ not  _ his Father,” Catelyn insisted, though this deep part of her gnawed at her insides, crying “what if?”

 

“A dragon will always be a dragon,” said Lysa. “Burning those who stand in their way, and I'm telling you sweet sister, my husband got in his way.”

 

“In his way of what?” Catelyn demanded, tired of this game.

 

Lysa said nothing and continued to brush her hair. Catelyn was determined to turn around and go straight back to Winterfell, when her sister spoke again. She had something in her hands.

 

“Oh,” she said lightly. “This came for you, a raven from Winterfell. It's about your son, Robb. He's missing.”


	23. THEON I

**THEON I**

 

The raven had come in the night. 

 

Theon was still awake, sharpening the tips of his arrowheads, when he heard the telltale beat of wings. He was sitting alone in the godswood, a place he sometimes liked to be on his own, sitting on a rock before the great white heart tree, its branches looming over his head in a cacophony of red.

 

He looked up from his work and listened as the raven beat its wings towards the Maester’s turret, where Maester Luwin did his work and slept. Theon’s heart grew cold; the raven had come from the North, and the only thing North was— _ the Wall. _

 

Before he even could register what he was doing, he gathered up his arrows and slid them back into their quiver, shouldering it, then striding out of the godswood and towards the Maester’s turret, nevermind the fact that Maester Luwin was probably in no mood to have guests.

 

He rapped on the Maester’s door three times, waiting impatiently for the man to amble to the door. When the wooden door opened and Maester Luwin’s face was revealed, Theon felt his heart drop to his feet. Maester Luwin looked grave, and he held the letter the raven had sent curled up in his hand.

 

“I heard the raven,” said Theon without any prompting. “It came from the North.”

 

Maester Luwin looked at him a moment before saying, “Aye, it did.”

 

“What news from the Wall? Is it Robb?” Theon was terrified to hear the answer, but hear it he must. Robb was his  _ brother _ .

 

Maester Luwin considered him for a second before sighing and motioning him through the door. “I think you'd best come in, Greyjoy, and take a seat.”

 

“I don't want to take a seat,” said Theon, becoming angry. He felt his fists curl at the way he called him ‘Greyjoy’. “I want to know what the raven said.”

 

“Very well,” said Maester Luwin and he handed over the curled up piece of parchment. Theon unraveled it and his eyes flitted over the news. If his heart dropped any lower, it would be six feet below the ground.

 

Robb was gone.

 

_ Missing _ it said, Beyond the Wall. 

 

_ As good as dead _ whispered a hateful voice in Theon’s mind but he cut it off before it could plant seeds and grow roots, festering in his mind.

 

Theon crushed the piece of parchment in his hand, his fingernails digging into his palm until he was likely to bleed. “Robb’s missing,” he said. “That idiot went beyond the Wall.”

 

“And the Prince,” said Maester Luwin. “They are both missing.”

 

Robb was  _ missing _ . His brother, lost beyond the Wall, with only the Prince to keep him company. Theon hoped they had the good sense to bring their direwolves too, and maybe they'd have a fighting chance, if the cold didn't get them first.

 

Theon shoved the crumpled up piece of parchment back into the Maester's hand and turned to stalk away, his mind already full of plans. “And just where do you think you’re going?” Maester Luwin asked.

 

“None of your business, old man,” snapped Theon.

 

“If you think to ride to the Wall to go and look for them, I’d highly advise against it.”

 

Theon whirled around. “Oh, yeah? And why’s that? The Old Bear can't find them and their Uncle Benjen’s gone missing too looking for them. I'm the best chance they've got!”

 

Maester Luwin did not even flinch as Theon got in his face, spitting fire. He calmly said, “You have also been assigned to protect young Rickon as both of his parents are gone. Are you going to neglect your duty?”

 

“Bugger duty! Robb’s my brother, and I won't let him be wildling stew!”

 

“You would forsake the order that Lord Stark gave you?”

 

“He would be thanking me when I bring home his son, as will the King,” said Theon haughtily.

 

“Or he would be punishing you for forsaking your duty. What if something happens to Rickon while you're gone? Do you think Lord Stark would be thanking you then?”

 

“Well, it's a good thing you are here to protect him,” Theon whispered in his face, before he stalked out of the turret.

 

He made his way across the courtyard, his mind formulating the best plan of action in order to get to the Wall as fast as possible. He would need a horse, enough rations for a fortnight at the most, a sleeping pack, and furs to keep him warm once he was at the Wall. 

 

He headed to the kitchens, stealing a wheel of cheese, some apples, a loaf of bread, a whole rasher of crispy bacon and three flagons of summerwine. He wrapped them all up in a long, tan piece of cloth then walked to his chambers. He walked swiftly and silently, with the legs of a hunter. 

 

He cracked open his door and fixed himself a pack, bringing a change of clothes and the food he stole, along with the furs from his bed to keep him warm during the nights and the best pair of boots he had. He grabbed his bow, slinging it over his shoulder next to his quiver of newly sharpened arrows. 

 

He shouldered his pack and made his way out of the Great Keep, toward the stables where he'd get his horse. It was russet brown thing, and was his ever since he'd come to Winterfell. Lord Stark had gifted it to him on his tenth nameday, as a show of friendliness to his ward. Theon coaxed the horse out of the stable and lead him to the North gate, which led out into the wolfswood and the kingsroad towards the Wall, when he heard a man shout in the dark from the opposite side of Winterfell, at the main gate.

 

“Who goes th--” the man’s words were abruptly cut off with when Theon heard the sound of an arrow slicing through him.

 

Theon’s heart sped up and he abandoned his quest to take his horse, running to hide behind some crates in the courtyard. He listened closely as another arrow pierced the air, silencing the other guard at the gate. The guards from the North gate came running, completely missing Theon from where he hid. 

 

A loud cracking boom filled the night sky as the main gate shook under the pressure of someone on the other side to trying to break in. The guards drew their swords and Theon fingered his bow. Another boom, then another, and another, till the gate was nothing but splinters, smashed to pieces by a great black battering ram. 

 

Theon could barely see who the invaders were in the dark. Then an order was yelled from beyond the smashed gate. “Attack!” yelled a voice, and for the second time that night, Theon’s blood ran cold.

 

Men came pouring through the gate, carrying swords and bows, and all wearing the golden kraken on a sea of black upon their breastplates. The sigil of House Greyjoy. 

 

Theon’s House.

 

They slaughtered the guards with ease, quickly overpowering them with their numbers, for Lord Stark had left few people in his wake when he left for King’s Landing and Lady Catelyn even fewer.

 

_ That’s why they are here _ thought Theon,  _ because Lord Stark is gone.  _

 

_ They’ve come to exact revenge. _

  
  
  
  



	24. EDDARD IV

**EDDARD IV**

 

Ned knelt before the great oak in the Red Keep’s godswood, the leaves overgrown with smokeberry vines that climbed to the sky.

 

There was no heart tree in the Red Keep, most of them in the South had been rooted up or burnt by the Andals who didn't keep to the Gods of the First Men and the children of the forest. 

 

Ned closed his weary eyes and began to pray. He had come here nearly everyday since he had arrived in King’s Landing and now he came every night, ever since the raven arrived from the Wall.

 

His boy, his eldest son Robb, and his nephew the Prince, both missing beyond the Wall, presumably dead, or worse. Ned prayed to all the Gods that he knew of in existence that somehow, someway, that they'd be alright and return home safe, but as more days passed and not a word of their safety, Ned’s hope began to wane. 

 

His brother was missing as well. He had had gone out with the boys when they went beyond the Wall and got caught in a terrible snowstorm. The other men who were with them couldn't find him in the snow. 

 

Ned wondered how was it that the Prince and Robb were capable of getting lost. Surely they had guards with them, sworn to protect the Crown Prince at any cost? How could they have lost them? Did Robb convince Jon to sneak away with him, to get up to some sort of mischief that only boys of six and ten were capable of? Ned thought Robb knew better than that.

 

Ned prayed for his sister as well. Her health had slowly been deteriorating as the days passed since the raven came. She refused to leave her bed, just stared into space with a cold expression on her face, as if she were awaiting death to come claim her. Ned always thought Lyanna as a fighter, so to see her give up like this was disconcerting to say the least.

 

Ned tried to sit with her as much as he could, when he wasn't doing his duty for the King, who seemed to have thrown himself into his own duties rather than to succumb to the darkness that ate at his wife, but Ned saw the sadness in Rhaegar’s violet eyes as plain as day and so did the others. No one dared bring up the matter of succession with Rhaegar, who still adamantly held out hope that his son was alive, even as the days bled into weeks.

 

Lyanna wouldn't speak when Ned sat with her, no matter how hard he tried to engage with her, her ice blue eyes distant and vacant, and rimmed with dark circles. Ned knew from the Maester that she couldn't sleep without milk of the poppy, too plagued with night terrors of what was happening to her son. 

 

Ned heard the whispers of the Keep, no matter how much he tried to ignore them. The Queen was dying of a broken heart, they said. The wolf had gone out of her, they said. Looking at her, Ned hated to admit it but he could see the truth in their words.

 

One day, about three days after Lyanna had suffered her breakdown, Robert cornered Ned as he was leaving the Tower and asked for his leave to visit her. Ned didn't think that was such a good idea and told Robert as much, but he wouldn't listen. Robert insisted that when Lyanna saw his face, she would be filled with such happiness that she'd come out of her stupor.

 

Ned wasn't convinced.

 

 _The only thing_ _that will bring Lyanna out of her sorrow,_ Ned had thought, _is if we receive word that Jon is alive_.

 

Ned told Robert that he'd need special permission from the King in order to visit her, but Robert scoffed at him.

 

“You’re the King’s bloody Hand!” He had said. “You can give his permission!”

 

“And I will not give it to you,” Ned had said, perhaps a little too coldly. “Lyanna is in no mood to be receiving guests, no matter how  _ friendly  _ you are.”

 

The look that Robert leveled him with before stalking off was filled with such contempt and disbelief that if they were younger men, Ned might have actually been afraid of him. They hadn't spoken a word to each other since. And just to be safe, Ned gave explicit orders to the Kingsguard stationed outside Lyanna’s door that no one was allowed to enter her room without express permission from him or the King.

 

Ned was broken out of his prayer by the sound of urgent footsteps coming towards him. Subconsciously, Ned fingered the hilt of his blade before turning around to see the King’s serving man, Romlyn.

 

“My lord,” he panted. “You must come at once! The King wishes to see you immediately.”

 

Ned’s heart froze. “Is it my sister?” He dared to ask.

 

“No, my lord.”

 

“My son?”

 

“No, my lord.”

 

“Then, what is it?” He demanded, feeling his annoyance grow with his impatience.

 

“News from Winterfell, my lord. It's been taken.”

 

Ned's blood ran cold in his veins. “Taken?” He managed to ask. “By whom?”

 

“The Greyjoys, my lord.”

 

Ned was up off his knees in a moments notice and striding past the serving man without so much as backwards glance. His face was as stony as the statutes in the Winterfell crypts. Not one person dared speak to him as he made his way into Maegor’s Holdfast for the look that was upon his face.

 

He didn't bother knocking at the King’s door, nor did the Kingsguard stationed outside the room stop him from barging in. To his utter surprise, he saw his sister there, looking for all the world as if she'd much rather be in her bed, but there was some light back to her eyes, a fiery passion.

 

“What is the meaning of this?” Ned demanded of his King after he got over the shock of seeing his sister up and about.

 

“Winterfell has been taken, Ned,” said Rhaegar, handing over the piece of parchment that he had received.

 

Ned snatched it out of his hands and read over the words. “By order of Balon Greyjoy, rightful King of the Iron Islands, Winterfell has been laid to waste. Your ward rots away in the dungeons—” Ned breathed heavily through his nose and crumpled up the piece of parchment in his hand. “Balon Greyjoy is a cunning man. He knew I was gone from Winterfell, and most of my children. He seized his opportunity to wreak revenge on me for taking his son.”

 

Rhaegar was solemn. “Aye,” he said. “And he's proclaimed himself King once again. Gods be good, Ned, I cannot go to war with this man again!”

 

“Then don't,” spoke Lyanna, surprising Ned and Rhaegar. Her voice was weak but firm. “Call up the bannermen, Ned. Have them take back Winterfell at once and throw those Ironborn back into the sea.”

 

Ned nodded. His hand was already itching to begin writing at once. Then he paused and said, “There was no mention of my wife or son.”

 

Rhaegar looked at him with sad eyes. “None. I'm sorry, Ned.”

 

Ned's blood began to boil. Those foul ironborn probably dishonored his wife or worse before slitting her throat to the bone and leaving her out for the wolves. His son was most likely dead as well, along with his direwolf. 

 

What would he tell his children?


	25. ARYA III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, so im posting this chapter a day early because my computer is out of commission for the moment so im using my complexes computer to post this until i get my computer back and idk if ill have one tomorrow so...HAPPY BIRTHDAY! lol

**ARYA III**

 

Arya didn't feel like going to sword lessons that day.

 

Her whole household was in mourning for the family they had lost. Her mother, her little brother, and quite possibly her eldest brother, though there was no word from the Wall. 

 

When her Father had told Arya and her siblings the horrifying news, that the Greyjoys had laid waste to Winterfell and most likely killed what remained of their household, Arya was in shock. She watched with wide eyes as Sansa burst into tears and fled to her room, never to be seen from again the past fews days. Their Father had tried to coax her out of her room with lemon cakes and gentle promises, but Sansa had refused. Resigned, Ned had the chambermaids bring her all of her meals to her room, at least making sure she had enough sustenance, although Arya heard whispers that she barely ate a thing, just laid in bed and stared at her canopy in tears.

 

Bran had handled it better, trying to put on the brave face of a man instead of the boy he was, although Arya saw his lip tremble every now and then, when he thought she wasn't looking. Arya was always looking.

 

Arya hadn't said a word of what happened since her Father broke the news, contenting herself to wallow in silence and in the privacy of her own rooms at night. She didn't cry, just buried her face in Nymeria’s fur and breathed deep, feeling her heartbeat under her fingers that let her know that at least she was alive.

 

Even though her Father put on the bravest face out of all of them, Arya knew he was the one who was suffering the most. Two of his children were most likely dead, along with his beloved wife. Sometimes Arya found him sitting at the table, his head buried in his hands, though he quickly righted himself with a smile that did not reach his icy blue eyes when he heard her approaching. 

 

All of their household wore black as a sign of their mourning. Arya hadn't understood why she was forced to pack such dreary clothes when they were in Winterfell, but now she knew. She didn't have it in her to fight Septa Mordane, who herself was almost always on the verge of tears for she fiercely adored their lady Mother, when she made her wear her black woolen gown. 

 

At the rare times when Arya was about the castle, trying to distance herself from the black mood that had fallen over the Tower of the Hand, she saw that the Queen was in mourning clothes too. Whether it was for her son who was lost beyond the Wall, or for her brother’s family, no one was brave enough to ask. 

 

The Queen had finally left her chambers in Maegor’s Holdfast and was by all accounts doing much better, though when Arya glimpsed her face she saw the deep sadness cracking beneath the surface of icy eyes. 

 

Despite all the sadness that had befallen the Red Keep, King Rhaegar had insisted that the Tourney of the Hand continue on as planned. There were whispers that it was the Queen’s idea, to continue to bring about peace between the Houses. In the next few days, more visitors poured through the bronze gates of the Red Keep, most of them Tyrells. Arya spied the three sons of Lord Mace Tyrell come into the Throne Room to present themselves to the King. 

 

All three of them were decidedly handsome, although one walked with a cane and an intricate leg brace with a great limp. The other two walked with pride, one of them gallantly smiling at the passersby while the other just looked proud to be there. Behind them, cantering along, was the acclaimed Queen of Thorns, Olenna Tyrell. Arya wondered how she got that name.

 

Arya stuck to the shadows of the Throne Room, standing behind one of the massive pillars. Her lord Father didn't even know she was there, thinking she was off about somewhere else. 

 

The eldest Tyrell boy seemed to be the most wise and courteous, limping up to her Father after the introductions were made and offering his most sincere apologies about their family. Arya took one good look at his handsome face and knew he was being truthful. Despite his limp, Arya found herself thinking that he would be better for her sister, than that fool Joffrey.

 

The next day, all of the families went out onto the docks overlooking Blackwater Bay, to welcome the King’s Mother and his beloved siblings, who had sailed from Dragonstone to share in the festivities of the tourney. They glided with an air of grace off their boat,  _ The Black Dread _ , and Arya was not surprised by how beautiful they looked.

 

The Queen Mother, immediately upon setting foot on the docks, went to her son and took his hands in her hers, kissing them lightly. Rhaegar seemed dissatisfied with this and pulled her into a hug, despite all of the eyes on him. Arya’s heart clenched as she stood beside her Father, knowing she'd never get to hug her Mother like that again.

 

The Princess Daenerys, in her gown of black silk, surprised them all by pulling Queen Lyanna into a bone crushing hug. Arya saw Lyanna falter for but a moment, before wrapping her arms about the small girl and burying her face into her silver curls. Arya guessed it was to hide her tears. 

 

The Queen Mother moved on to Lyanna and whispered something in her ear which made her smile and lightly touched her belly, which was barely starting to swell. She came up next to Ned, holding out a hand for him to kiss before saying, “I am terribly sorry for your loss, my lord.”

 

Ned looked at the ground. “Thank you, your Majesty.”

 

“I promise you this: we will crush those ironborn and make them rue the day they ever set foot in your home.”

 

Ned nodded. The Queen Mother looked around and said, “I was told you were bringing three children to King’s Landing, but I see only two. Where’s the eldest?”

 

“She has not been feeling herself since—since I told her the news. She's taken to her room to mourn in privacy.”

 

The Queen Mother gave a sympathetic smile. “Poor child. Do give her my sympathies when you see her?”

 

“Of course.”

 

They departed then, the King escorting his Mother from the docks and into the Red Keep, with the royal procession trailing behind. Arya let her Father and brother go before her, preferring to stay back and watch as the waves rolled in and out of the Bay. She felt a presence come and stand up beside her and she tensed. If it was another person to give their sympathies, she thought to scream and hit someone, preferably the person who said it.

 

She looked up and saw that it was Lord Baratheon’s eldest son, Gendry. He was staring out at the waves with her, his hands behind his back in a placid manner. Arya wondered if he was as spoiled as his brother, but when he opened his mouth, Arya could sense that he wasn't.

 

“Do you ever wish you could just hop on a boat and start rowing until you were somewhere far from here?” He asked, not even looking at her.

 

“I don't know how to row,” said Arya, and then she wished she hadn't. You should never expose your weaknesses.

 

“I could teach you,” he said, surprising both of them. His face flushed bright red but he continued, “That is, if you want to. I know you are trying to get strong and rowing is one the best ways to do so.”

 

“How do you know that?” Arya asked archly.

 

“Because you were playing at knights when my brother decided to be an arse,” he said, grinning a bit. “Good job on getting your wolf to bite him, by the way. Never seen him whimper so before.”

 

“He deserved it,” said Arya, not apologetic in the least that her direwolf had hurt his brother.

 

Gendry laughed. “Aye,” he said. “That he did.” He looked back and saw everyone was gone, the docks were deserted, save for a few fisherman and workers who were unloading the  _ Black Dread.  _ He offered out an arm, “Come on. Let me escort you back to Keep, my lady.”

 

Arya made to smack him and he held up his hands in mock surrender. “Don't call me ‘my lady’!” She yelled. 

 

Gendry bowed mockingly. “As my lady commands,” he grinned and this time, Arya did hit him.

 

Walking back to the Red Keep with Gendry by her side, for the first time for the past few days, Arya didn't feel like crying.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you guys have an awesome sauce Halloween and OMG! over 300 kudos?! you guys are seriously amazing, i cant thank you enough:)
> 
> (btw, the computer that im posting on has one of those clunky keyboards and its so weird typing on one because im used to my mac laptop's keyboard)
> 
> (sorry this chapter is so short, the next one wont be, i promise:))
> 
> i love Arya and Gendry btw


	26. SANSA III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so sorry this chapter has been delayed!!! i have not and still do not have a computer at the moment so please bear with me on this story!! i have not forgotten about you i promise!:)

**SANSA III**

 

Sansa rode to the Hand’s tourney with her sister, brother, and Septa Mordane, in a litter with curtains of red silk so fine she could see right through them. It painted the whole world blood red.

_ Fitting _ thought Sansa sullenly as she looked out onto the streets.

She clutched her skirts of the finest spun black wool, the sign of mourning. She hadn’t even planned on coming to the tourney. She was content to stay in her rooms and cry into Lady’s fur, until that morning a knock came at her door.

“Go away, Arya,” she had said, her voice muffled by pillow where she laid her face.

“I’m afraid I’m not Arya,” said the voice from behind the door and Sansa quickly sat up.

_ It was the Queen! _

Sansa hurriedly got out of her bed and smoothed down her hair as best she could. She’d barely touched it since she first ran to her room the day she got that horrid news and she hadn’t bathed. She knew she must look awful and was embarrassed to present herself to the Queen but it wasn’t like she could keep her waiting. Lady watched with doleful eyes on her bed as she timidly made her way to the door and pulled it open.

There stood her Aunt Lyanna, with one Kingsguard behind her, Ser Barristan Selmy. She was dressed in the most beautiful mourning clothes of black, with swathes of dark blue in the long, billowy sleeves. Her face looked tired but still beautiful, her eyes a solemn shade of icy blue. She gave Sansa a small smile. “May I come in?” She asked.

Sansa nodded her head demurely. “Of course, Your Grace.” She stepped aside so Lyanna could come in after she told Ser Barristan to wait outside. Lyanna went and ran a hand through Lady’s fur, contenting herself with the softness. 

“I was wondering if I could talk to you, Sansa,” her Aunt Lyanna had said as she pet Lady’s fur.

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“Please, call me Aunt Lyanna.”

“Yes, Aunt Lyanna.”

“Sit.” Sansa did as she was told and sat next to Lyanna on the bed. For a few minutes neither spoke, just sat in silence.

Finally, Lyanna said, “My dear Sansa, I want you to know how very sorry I am about your Mother and brother. It was horrible crime that happened to them and it will be repaid.”

Sansa looked at her hands, willing herself not to cry. Any mention of her Mother and brother usually sent to her to tears, but she tried to be strong, like her Aunt. She could be a wolf too.

Lyanna seemed to notice her struggle and put her arm around her, pulling her close. “Come here, sweet girl. I know, I know.” She ran a hand through Sansa’s wayward curls and Sansa was reminded of her Mother and tears began to stream down her face. “Hush now, child. The time for tears is over. Don’t you think your Mother would want you to be strong and live?”

Sansa nodded, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand. “Mother would want me to--to carry on.”

“Yes, sweet girl,” said Lyanna. “Just like--just like my boy would want me to.”

“You don’t know if Prince Jon is dead,” said Sansa. “He has Robb with him, and he’d keep him safe.”

Lyanna gave a tight smile. “Yes, I’m sure that’s so.” She looked away for a moment, out the window of the tower before turning back to Sansa, her eyes a little bit brighter. “Now, why don’t you come to the tourney? Your sister and brother are going.”

“My Father is not,” said Sansa.

“No, he’s not,” said Lyanna. “But we can forgive him for that.” She winked a little and Sansa couldn’t help but smile. “Now, I will have the handmaidens come in and draw you a nice bath and put you in a clean dress. I’ll even do your hair. Would you like that?”

Sansa nodded demurely, her smile growing a bit. Lyanna’s smile grew too and she pulled Sansa in and gave her a soft kiss upon the temple. She sent for the handmaidens who did as she said and drew Sansa a steaming bath. They scrubbed her clean and washed her hair thoroughly, putting a mixture in the water that made her smell like lemons, her favorite.

They dried her hair with a towel and dressed her in a clean black woolen dress, for Sansa insisted that she still be in mourning clothes. Lyanna came back after the handmaidens were finished and did Sansa’s hair in a Northern style.

“Like the ones I used to wear back home,” said Lyanna as she pulled the braids back atop her head.

Lyanna helped her along to the others, who were surprised to hear that Sansa was coming. She bid them goodbye until they reached the tourney and Sansa felt her heart grow heavy again without Lyanna’s loving presence. 

So she found herself in the litter, staring out amongst the buildings of King’s Landing as they made their way outside the city walls where pavilions had been raised beside the river, and the common folk came out in the thousands to watch the games. If it had been at any other point in her life, the splendor of it all would have taken her breath away, but now it just made her sad. Seeing the shining armor, the great chargers caparisoned in silver and black, the shouts of the crowd, the banners snapping in the wind, even the knights did nothing to lift her spirits.

They found their seats that her Father had promised her what felt like a lifetime ago, amongst the high lords and ladies. She spied Lord Baratheon and his wife Lady Cersei, with their litter of children. She looked away when she spotted Joffrey looking at her, a mean expression on his face. Next to them were the Lannisters, Lord Tywin and his son, Tyrion, were dressed in red. Tywin wore a proud look on their face, for Jaime Lannister was participating in the tourney. Further down she assumed were the Tyrells, all looking incredibly beautiful with their green and gold. One she saw had an intricate brace on his leg with a nice handsome face. She burned when he looked at her and gave his head a nod of respect.

Up above on the dias sat the King and his Queen, with the children seated beneath them. They, like Lyanna, were all dressed in black. The King had his silver circlet atop his head and Lyanna had hers. They looked very regal and pleasing to the eye, despite the sadness that overtook their features. The crowd, which was rowdy with excitement for the coming games, silenced when King Rhaegar stood up to address them.

“Welcome one and all! I trust you all had a fine journey here to King’s Landing for this tourney! I know that for some of us, it has been a long and sad journey, but that is all in the past now. Today, we look toward the future and what a bright future it is! Let the games begin!” The crowd broke into cheers as he finished his short speech.

They sat and watched as the heroes from Sansa’s songs came riding forth, each one looking more magnificent than the last. The seven knights of the Kingsguard took the field in scaled armor the color of milk, their cloaks as white as fresh fallen snow. Ser Jaime came riding forth with a lion’s head helm and a golden sword. Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, thundered past him like an avalanche. Sansa remembered Lord Yohn Royce, who guested at Winterfell two years before. His armor was bronze and thousands and thousands of years old. He had said that it was engraved with magic runes that warded him against harm. Sansa didn’t believe whether or not it was true. Septa Mordane pointed out Lord Jason Mallister, in indigo chased with silver, the wings of an eagle on his helm. Arya giggled over the warrior priest Thoros of Myr, with his flapping red robes and shaven head, until Septa Mordane informed her that he had once scaled the walls of Pyke with a flaming sword in hand. That shut Arya right up and Sansa felt her eyes prick again at the mention of the place where the ironborn had come from, the very same who had killed her Mother and brother. Septa Mordane noticed and rested her arm on Sansa’s, soothing her.

Other riders Sansa did not recognize; hedge knights from the Fingers and Highgarden and the mountains of Dorne, unsung freeriders and new-made squires, the younger sons of high lords and the heirs of lesser houses. Younger men, most had not done a great deed yet. Sansa couldn’t bring herself to care whether or not they would, her mind was on other things, like the fact that her Mother was no longer on this earthly plane. 

The Hound entered the lists as well, and Lord Robert’s youngest brother, the handsome Renly who was married to Lady Margaery of House Tyrell. Jory, Alyn, and Harwin rode for Winterfell and the North. “Jory looks like a beggar amongst these others,” Septa Mordane sniffed when he appeared. Jory’s armor was blue-grey plate without device or ornament, a thin grey cloak hung from his shoulders like a soiled rag. Yet he acquitted himself well, unhorsing Horas Redwyne in his first joust and one of the Freys in his second. In his third match, he rode three passes at a freerider named Lothor Brune whose armor was as drab as his own. Neither man lost his seat, but Brune’s lance was steadier and his blows were better placed, so the King gave him the victory. Alyn and Harwin fared less well; Harwin was unhorsed in his first tilt to a member of the Kingsguard, while Alyn fell to Ser Balon Swann.

The jousting went all day and into the dusk, the hooves of the great warhorses pounding down the lists until the field was a ragged wasteland of torn earth. Sansa tried to cheer with everyone else at the appropriate moments: when riders crashed together, when the lances exploded into splinters while the commons screamed for their favorites, but her heart wasn’t in it. She watched as a man fell, not cringing at all. She knew, in the back of her mind, that a lady knew how to behave in tournaments, but that wasn’t why she was so nonplussed. Everything just felt so pointless. Her Mother was dead and so was her sweet little brother, with her eldest brother lost beyond the Wall. What did it matter about a tournament?

Ser Jaime rode brilliantly, Sansa supposed as she watched. He overthrew Ser Andar Royce and the Marcher Lord Bryce Caron as easily as if he were riding rings, and then took a hard-fought match from the white-haired Barristan Selmy, who had won his first two tilts against men thirty and forty years his junior.

Sandor Clegane, the Hound, and his immense brother, Ser Gregor the Mountain, seemed unstoppable as well, riding down one foe after the next in ferocious style. The most interesting moment of the whole day came during Ser Gregor’s second joust, when his lance rode up and struck a young knight from the Vale under the gorget with such force that it drove through his throat, killing him instantly. The youth fell not ten feet from where Sansa was seated. The point of Ser Gregor’s lance had snapped off in his neck, and his life’s blood flowed out in slow pulses, each weaker than the one before. His armor was shiny new; a bright streak of fire ran down his outstretched arm, as the steel caught the light. Then the sun went behind a cloud, and it was gone. His cloak was blue, the color of the sky on a clear day in King’s Landing, trimmed with a border of crescent moons, but as his blood seeped into it, the cloth darkened and the moons turned red, one by one.

Sansa sat with her hands folded in her lap, watching as the blood pulsed out of his neck with a strange fascination. She had never seen a man die before. She felt as though she should cry, but no tears came. They had all been wept for her Mother. She wondered idly if she had bled like that, when the ironborn sliced her throat open. 

After they carried off the body, a boy with a spade ran onto the field and shoveled dirt over the spot where he had fallen, to cover up the blood. Then the jousts resumed.

Ser Balon Swann also fell to Gregor, and Renly to the Hound. Renly was unhorsed so violently that he seemed to fly backward off his charger, legs in the air. His head hit the ground with an audible  _ crack _ that made the crowd gasp, but it was just the golden antler on his helm. One of the tines had snapped off beneath him. When Renly climbed to his feet, the commons cheered wildly. He handed the broken tine to his conqueror with a gracious bow. The Hound snorted and tossed the broken antler into the crowd, where the commons began to punch and claw over the little bit of gold, until Renly walked out among them and restored the peace.

Later a hedge knight in a checkered cloak disgraced himself by killing Beric Dondarrion’s horse, and was declared forfeit. Lord Beric shifted his saddle to a new mount, only to be knocked right off it by Thoros of Myr. Ser Aron Santagar and Lothor Brune tilted thrice without result; Ser Aron fell afterward to Lord Jason Mallister, and Brune to Yohn Royce’s younger son, Robar.

In the end it came down to four; the Hound and his monstrous brother Gregor, Jaime Lannister and Ser Loras Tyrell, the youth they called the Knight of Flowers.

Ser Loras was the youngest son of Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South. At six and ten, he was the youngest rider on the field, yet he unhorsed three knights of the Kingsguard that morning in his first three jousts. He was quite beautiful, like his siblings. His plate was intricately fashioned and enameled as a bouquet of a thousand different flowers, and his snow-white stallion was draped in a blanket of red and white roses. After each victory, Ser Loras would remove his helm and ride slowly round the fence, and finally pluck a single white rose from the blanket and toss it to some fair maiden in the crowd.

His last match of the day was against the younger Royce. Ser Robar’s ancestral runes proved small protection as Ser Loras split his shield and drove him from his saddle to crash with an awful clangor in the dirt. Robar lay moaning as the victor made his circuit of the field. Finally they called for a litter and carried him off to his tent, dazed and unmoving. Ser Loras made his way towards her and Sansa hated herself for the fact that she could barely even manage a smile.

To the other maidens he had given white roses, but the one he plucked for her was red. “Sweet lady,” he said, “no victory is half so beautiful as you.” Sansa took the flower in her hands and managed what she assumed was a sweet and demure smile, but she felt there was no warmth behind it. She made a show of inhaling the sweet scent of the rose to appease Ser Loras as he rode off and then looked up to the dias to where her Aunt Lyanna was sitting. Lyanna gave a subtle nod in her direction and smiled a little, although the smile quickly fell.

Sansa looked back and was startled to see a man standing over her, staring. He was short, with a pointed beard and silver at his temples, almost as old as her Father. “You must be one of her daughters,” he said to her. He had grey-green eyes that did not smile when his mouth did. “You have the Tully look.”

“I’m Sansa Stark,” she said, ill at ease. She didn’t like someone she didn’t even know talking of her Mother with such an easy air, as if she wasn’t food for the worms now. He wore a long patterned overcoat with a silver mockingbird fastened in the middle of the collar. He had the effortless manner of a high lord but Sansa did not know him. She remembered her courtesies and said, “I have not had the honor, my lord.”

Septa Mordane quickly took a hand. “Sweet child, this is Lord Petyr Baelish, of the King’s Small Council.”

“Your Mother was  _ my  _ queen of beauty once,” the man said quietly. His breath smelled like mint. “You have her hair.” His fingers brushed against her cheek as he stroked one auburn lock and Sansa fought back a shudder. Quite abruptly he turned and walked away.

By then, the moon was well up and the crowd was tired, so the King decreed that the last three matches would be fought the next morning, before the melee. While the commons began their walk home, talking of the day’s jousts and the matches to come on the morrow, the court moved to the riverside to begin the feast. Six huge aurochs had been roasting for hours, turning slowly on wooden spits while the kitchen boys basted them with butter and herbs until the meat crackled and spit. Tables and benches had been raised outside the pavilions, piled high with sweetgrass and strawberries and fresh-baked bread.

Sansa and Septa Mordane were given places of high honor, to the left of the raised dais where the King sat with his Queen. Arya and Bran had run off at some point, with Arya saying she had to practice for her dancing lessons. When Joffrey seated himself to her right, she felt her throat tighten. He had not spoken a word to her since the business in the godswood and she had no desire to talk to him after he slapped her. Sansa felt she hated him for his actions; the way he tried to slice up her sister and the butcher’s boy and how he wanted her lie to the King. 

Maybe in another life she could find it in her to forgive him, for he certainly was beautiful tonight in his deep blue doublet studded with a double row of golden lion’s heads. His hair was as bright as metal. Sansa looked at him and felt herself tremble, afraid of another slap or harsh word.

Instead, Joffrey smiled and kissed her hand and said, “Ser Loras has a keen eye for beauty, sweet lady.”

“He was too kind,” she demurred, trying to remain courteous and brave in his presence, although her mind screamed at her to run far, far away. “Ser Loras is a--a true knight. Do you think he will win tomorrow?”

“No,” said Joffrey. “My dog will do for him, or perhaps my uncle Jaime. And in a few years, when I am old enough to enter the lists, I shall do for them all.” He raised his hand to summon a servant with a flagon of iced summerwine and poured her a cup. She looked anxiously at Septa Mordane, hoping she’d make her refuse, but Joffrey leaned over and filled the septa’s cup as well, so she nodded and thanked him graciously and said not another word.

The servants kept the cups filled all night, although Sansa just sipped at hers. Singers sat before the King’s pavilion, filling the dusk with music. A juggler kept a cascade of burning clubs spinning through the air. 

Joffrey seemed to be the soul of courtesy, showering Sansa with compliments, trying to make her laugh, and sharing with her a bit of court gossip. Sansa just kept wishing he would  _ go away _ so she could wallow in her sorrows in peace but he wouldn’t leave her alone. 

The courses came and went. A thick soup of barley and venison. Salads of sweetgrass and spinach and plums, sprinkled with crushed nuts. Snails in honey and garlic. Sansa had never eaten snails before and struggled until Joffrey showed her how. She smiled politely but fixed him with an icy glare when he wasn’t looking. Then came trout fresh from the river, baked in clay, and Joffrey once again helped her by cracking open the hard casing to expose the flaky white flesh within. And when the meat course was brought out, he tried to serve her himself but she shoved it into her mouth before he could, trying to give him such an unpleasant smile that he would leave, but he didn’t. 

Later came sweetbreads and pigeon pie and baked apples fragrant with cinnamon and lemon cakes frosted in sugar. Sansa nibbled on a lemon cake, but she didn’t feel much like eating them. Now, all she wanted was to go and hide in her room once more.

Joffrey looked off to the side and saw that her septa was asleep next to her, and his whole face changed. He sidled up to Sansa with a dangerous glint in her eye and said the thing she’d been dreading all evening. “I was so sorry to hear about your Mother and brother,” he said, not sounding sorry at all.

“Thank you,” she said, staring at her plate.

“What is that,  _ three  _ family members you’ve lost in such a short time? How your Mother must have screamed when they set fire to your little brother before they slit her throat to the bone, her life’s blood spilling everywhere. And who knows what happened to your eldest brother? Is he shadowcat food along with the Prince or was he gutted by a wildling, I wonder?” He gave her an evil look and Sansa visibly shuddered to his delight.

“Please,” she quietly begged. “Please, don’t talk of this.”

“And why not?” He demanded. “I can say whatever I wish.”

“It’s upsetting me,” she said and she felt tears gather in her eyes as she envisioned everything he said. 

“Oh, it’s upsetting you?” He asked nastily. “Like your sister’s beast upset me? I think that King is right fool for not having it killed, although something may be arranged…”

Sansa looked at him, aghast. “You’re going to kill Nymeria?”

“ _ That’s  _ the beast’s name?” Joffrey asked. “No,  _ I’m _ not going to kill it, but someone may.” He smirked cruelly.

Sansa gripped her fork tight and imagined herself stabbing it into his glittering green eye, effectively souring his good looks. Joffrey must have noticed the dangerous look in her eye, for he suddenly said, “It grows late. Do you need an escort back to the castle?”

“No!” Sansa said quickly, effectively ignoring the fact that her septa lay sleeping beside her. There was no way she was going to walk all the way back to the castle in the company of  _ him.  _ She calmed herself and said, “I meant to say, no  _ thank you _ . I can walk back on my own.” She really couldn’t, she didn’t know the way back, especially in the dark, but she wasn’t about to let  _ him  _ know that.

“Nonsense!” Joffrey scoffed. “A lady should never walk unattended. Dog!” He called.

Sandor Clegane seemed to take form out of the night for how quickly he appeared. He had exchanged his armor for a red woolen tunic with a leather dog’s head sewn on the front. The light of the torches made his burned face shine a dull red. “Yes, my lord?” He said.

Joffrey was no Lord, but Sansa wouldn’t put it past him to make the Hound call him that.

“Take my betrothed back to the castle, and see that no harm befalls her,” Joffrey told him brusquely. Then he turned to Sansa and grabbed her arm, whispering lowly in her ear, “And if you ever do what you did in the Throne Room that day, I’ll have the the Hound here split you in two and present your bloody body to your Father to weep over.” And with that, Joffrey strode off, leaving her there. 

Sansa was glad for it. Her heart was gripped in fear, for she knew Joffrey would do as he said.

She could  _ feel  _ the Hound watching her. “Did you think Joff was going to take you himself?” He laughed. He had a laugh like the snarling of dogs in a pit. “Small chance of that.” He pulled her unresisting to her feet. “Come, you’re not the only one who needs sleep. I’ve drunk too much, and I may need to kill my brother tomorrow.” He laughed again.

Terrified, Sansa pushed at Septa Mordane’s shoulder, hoping to wake her, but she only snored the louder. King Rhaegar and his Queen had left some time ago and half the benches were suddenly empty. The feast was over.

The Hound snatched up a torch to light their way. Sansa followed close behind him. The ground was rocky and uneven; the flickering light made it seem to shift and move beneath her. She kept her eyes lowered, watching where she placed her feet. They walked among the pavilions, each with its banner and armor hung outside, the silence weighing heavier and heavier with every step. He frightened Sansa, but she tried to courteous. It was all she had left when her Mother was so cruelly taken from her. “You rode gallantly today, Ser Sandor,” she made herself say.

Sandor Clegane snarled at her. “Spare me your empty little compliments, girl...and your  _ ser’s _ . I am no knight. I spit on them and their vows. My brother is a knight. Did you see him ride today?”

“Yes,” Sansa whispered, trembling. “He was…”

“Gallant?” The Hound finished.

He was mocking her, she realized. “No one could withstand him,” she managed at last, proud of herself. It was no lie.

Sandor Clegane stopped suddenly in the middle of a dark and empty field. She had no choice but to stop beside him. “Some septa trained you well. You’re like one of those birds from the Summer Isles, aren’t you? A pretty little talking bird, repeating all the pretty little words they taught you to recite.”

_ “No one could withstand him _ ,” the Hound rasped. “That’s truth enough. No one could ever withstand Gregor. That boy today, his second joust, oh, that was a pretty bit of business. You saw that, did you? Fool boy, he had no business riding in this company. No money, no squire, no one to help him with that armor. That gorget wasn’t fastened proper. You think Gregor didn’t notice that? You think  _ Ser  _ Gregor’s lance rode up by chance, do you? Pretty little talking girl, you believe that, you’re an empty-headed as a bird for true. Gregor’s lance goes where Gregor wants it to go. Look at me.  _ Look at me! _ ” Sandor Clegane put a huge hand under her chin and forced her face up. He squatted in front of her, and moved the torch close. “There’s a pretty for you. Take a good long stare. You know you want to. I’ve watched you avoiding looking at me the whole way up here. Piss on that. Take your look.”

His fingers held her jaw as hard as an iron trap. His eyes watched hers. Drunken eyes, sullen with anger. She had to look.

The right side of his face was gaunt, with sharp cheekbones and a grey eye beneath a heavy brow. His nose was large and hooked, his hair thin, dark. He wore it long and brushed it sideways, because no hair grew on the  _ other _ side of that face.

The left side of his face was a ruin. His ear had been burned away; there was nothing left but a hole. His eye was still good, but all around it was a twisted mass of scar, slick black flesh hard as leather, pocked with craters and fissured by deep cracks that gleamed red and wet when he moved. Down by his jaw, you could see a hint of bone where the flesh had been seared away.

Sansa felt tears prick her eyes again. He let go of her then, and snuffed out the torch in the dirt. “No pretty words for that, girl? No little compliment the septa taught you?” When there was no answer, he continued. “Most of them, they think it was some battle. A siege, a burning tower, an enemy with a torch. One fool asked if it was dragonsbreath.” His laugh was softer this time, but just as bitter. “I’ll tell you what it was, girl,” he said, a voice from the night, a shadow leaning so close now that she could smell the sour stench of wine on his breath. “I was younger than you, six, maybe seven. A woodcarver set up shop in the village under my Father’s keep, and to buy favor he sent us gifts. The old man made marvelous toys. I don’t remember what I got, but it was Gregor’s gift I wanted. A wooden knight, all painted up, every joint pegged separate and fixed with strings, so you could make him fight. Gregor is five years older than me, the toy was nothing to him, he was already a squire, near six foot tall and muscled like an ox. So I took his knight, but there was no joy to it, I tell you. I was scared all the while, and true enough, he found me. There was a brazier in the room. Gregor never said a word, just picked me up under his arm and shoved the side of my face down in the burning coals and held me there while I screamed and screamed. You saw how strong he is. Even then, it took three grown men to drag him off me. The septons preach about the seven hells. What do they know? Only a man who’s been burned knows what hell is truly like.

“My Father told everyone my bedding had caught fire, and our maester gave me ointments.  _ Ointments!  _ Gregor got his ointments too. Four years later, they anointed him with the seven oils and he recited his knightly vows and Rhaegar Targaryen himself tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Arise, Ser Gregor.’”

The rasping voice trailed off. He squatted silently before her, a hulking black shape shrouded in the night, hidden from her eyes. Sansa could hear his ragged breathing. She was sad for him, she realized. Somehow, her own sadness had gone away for a moment and was replaced with sadness for him.

The silence went on and on, so long that she began to grow afraid, but she was afraid for him, not for herself. She found his massive shoulder with her hand. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “He was... _ no true knight _ .” She said the last bit as if she were saying a joke, hoping he’d catch on.

He did.

The Hound threw back his head and roared. Sansa giggled a little silently with him, feeling her heart lighten a bit at the way he laughed. But as soon he laughed, he stopped and growled at her, “No. No, little bird. He was no true knight.”

The rest of the way into the city, Sandor Clegane said not a word. He led her to where the carts were waiting, told a driver to take them back to the Red Keep, and climbed in after he helped her up. They rode in silence through the King’s Gate and up torchlit city streets. He opened the postern door and led her into the castle, his burned face twitching and his eyes brooding, and he was one step behind her as they climbed the tower stairs. He took her safe all the way to the chamber outside her bedchamber.

“Thank you, my lord,” Sansa said, looking straight into his face. She was unafraid.

That was, until he caught her by the arm and leaned close. “The things I told you tonight,” he said, his voice sounding even rougher than usual. “If you ever tell Joffrey...your sister, your Father...any of them…”

“I won’t,” Sansa whispered. “I promise.” She meant it, with all her heart.

It was not enough. “If you ever tell anyone,” he finished, “I’ll kill you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> had to borrow a lot from the book in this chapter but i swear it's only temporary!


End file.
